Ritorukira: By Fate or By Force
by Majestika
Summary: Harry was a normal boy who walked the line between being constantly ridiculed and bullied, and being completely ignored. The Death Note changed everything. But add being a wizard on top of it? Harry's life just got considerably more interesting. Dark/Slytherin!Harry, any pairings will be weird and nonexistent until year 4/5 and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own jack squat. Except for Ral – Ral is mine.

**A.N. **Just a few things – I have tweaked a few things for this particular scenario to occur. Basically I just made it so that Harry Potter takes place the same time as Death Note, so we should be in the early 2000s, rather than the Pokemon-ridden 90s. It won't change much on the HP side of the coin because that whole story takes place in the wizarding world, where everything is centuries out of date and will be that way for a while. Just to be clear.

*Chapter title taken from a Jack Johnson song of the same name.

**Chapter One**

**I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends**

Harry's brow furrowed as he nursed his bloody lip, a wound courtesy of his cousin, Dudley. He had sustained many such small injuries before, and was used to them by now, but that wasn't to say they didn't discomfort him. Usually Harry was fast enough to avoid being caught by his cousin and his gang, but today they had cornered him this time.

Well, at least he had summer to look forward to. Dudley didn't usually bring his gang home, so if Harry stuck to the garden and the house, chances were he may have a small period of relative peace.

But still, he'd have Dudley to worry about. Harry scowled a bit, but it pulled his bleeding lip and he quickly forced his face back into a neutral expression. Dudley and the rest of the Dursleys. Ugh.

Harry knew it wasn't proper for someone to loathe their own family so passionately, so truly, but he did. They forced him to sleep in a cupboard when Dudley had two bedrooms. They limited his shower-time to three minutes, while Dudley could waste as much hot water as he pleased. They called him 'boy' and 'freak' and turned a blind eye to Dudley's abuse of Harry. But the one thing, above all others, that Harry hated most about them was how boring and stubborn they were.

Thoughts like these chased each other around Harry's head while he stomped home, eyes trained on the sidewalk before him. Why did he even bother with the concept of 'relative peace'? Number 4, Privet Drive had exactly zero redeeming qualities. Harry would be miserable no matter what, and it was all his stupid family's fault-

Harry stopped in his tracks and bent over, picking up the item before him. A thin black notebook with 'Death Note' hastily scrawled across the front in white. He glanced over to Mrs. Figg, who was sitting on her front steps, playing with her cats. "Mrs. Figg?" called Harry.

The old woman looked up. "Yes, dear?" she replied, a toothy smile on her face.

"D'you know whose notebook this is?" Harry asked, waving the black volume at her.

Mrs. Figg shrugged and frowned. "Never seen it in my life, dear." Harry said his goodbyes to her and continued on his way to Number 4. He really didn't feel like running up and down Surrey, looking for the owner of a notebook, so he opened it as he walked. Maybe someone put their contact information inside?

It was a bunch of rules. Harry slowed his walk a bit to read them, but didn't bother passed the first one.

_The human whose name in written in this note shall die._

Harry didn't laugh, but he did blow more air out of his nose than usual. So it was just some joke. Whatever. Obviously the owner never intended to get it back – leaving a joke notebook in the middle of a sidewalk? - so Harry quickly stuffed it into his raggedy backpack. His life wasn't that interesting, true, but it'd be nice to have a journal of some sort.

Harry took his time getting back to Number 4. Even with something like this 'Death Note' to brighten his day, he was still having a bad day and his aunt and uncle would only make it worse.

-Q-

As soon as Harry got home, Aunt Petunia presented him with a list of tasks to preform. This included weeding the garden, vacuuming the stairs, dusting Petunia's good china ("Break a plate, and I'll break you, boy," she had said threateningly), and starting supper. It was very few chores compared to normal, but Harry knew he'd be working much harder now that break had started.

In any case, the Death Note was pushed far out of his head until after an unsatisfying supper and bouts of dish-washing and table-cleaning. Finally, Petunia went to bed early, and Vernon and Dudley sat down to watch the evening news.

Nobody appreciated Harry's presence, so he darted to his cupboard under the stairs and began emptying his backpack.

The Death Note was pulled out and he stared at it for a while, before finally selecting a pencil that wasn't _too_ stubby, and opening it to the first page.

He marked the date and stared at the blank page.

Then, suddenly, he was writing. He wrote about how Dudley had bloodied his lip that day, how Petunia had yelled at him for getting home so late, how he heard Vernon swear under his breath earlier. He wrote how he found the notebook and how he found the 'rules' so amusing.

Then he wrote about 'Mrs. Beatrice Higgins', as she always referred to herself, and how downright nasty the math teacher always was. She'd called him out on wearing clothes far, far too large for him that day, and the entire class had snickered at him. He quickly reflected upon one person in particular – Stacy Adams, the daughter of Petunia's friend Yvonne – who had called him a hobo after class.

Soon, the graphite in Harry's pencil had been scratched to a dull nub, and he had no pencil sharpener of his own, so he just sighed and closed his new journal. Just writing out the days events had made him feel more depressed. At least he'd never have to deal with Higgins again, now that he was moving up a grade, and Stacy was supposed to be moving soon.

It was still early, but Harry made like a Petunia and turned in a little sooner than normal.

-Q-

A chilling wind blew through the Shinigami Realm, and Ral's black lips pulled against yellowed teeth, into an angry snarl.

A few paces away, Shinigami were gambling, but their focus shifted upon hearing Ral's disapproving growl. "Problem, Ral?" inquired one lazily.

Ral fastened his satchel shut and slung it over his shoulder. "Yeah," he rasped. "My Death Note is missing." The gamblers burst into fits of laughter. One fell over and knocked their pieces out of place.

"Ral, you're a treat," chuckled another Shinigami. "How did you manage to lose your _Death Note?_ I swear, sometimes your stupidity rivals even Ryuk's." The jab at Ryuk was met with more mindless cackling. Ral rolled his eyes and scowled deeply.

A new player entered the game, chuckling lightly. "Someone call?" asked Ryuk, sounding far too smug for Ral's comfort.

"Ral managed to lose his Death Note," giggled a Shinigami. "We were just saying that he's as thick as you now."

"Oh no!" gasped Ryuk, turning to Ral with a look of mock-horror on his face. "You lost your Death Note? No way, man. You're doomed."

Ral's nostrils would have flared. Would have, if he'd had any. "Ryuk, you wouldn't know anything about that... would you?" he demanded in a low voice. Ral didn't associate with the other Shinigami often, but they all knew he had a temper and most were mindful of it. Unfortunately, Ryuk had a knack for getting under others' skin, especially Ral's.

"Who, me?" Ryuk said, faking an offended frown. "You make me sad, Ral."

"Don't play dumb, Ryuk!" roared Ral, his eyes flashing and his skeletal wings flaring. His voice carried the kind of rage that Shinigami were too lazy to inspire often. The gamblers uttered their own variations of 'temper, temper' and 'sheesh' before scuttling away from Ral and Ryuk. "You stole it, didn't you? What, two Death Notes not enough for you? Never mind it, what have you done with mine? Speak!"

"I'm speaking, I'm speaking," Ryuk snapped defensively, hunching his shoulders a bit. "Go on and hurt my feelings, why don't you?"

"Ryuk," growled Ral in warning. Ryuk scowled.

"I might have jotted down a few things and dropped it into the human world," Ryuk admitted. "Around England, I guess. It's only been three days, though, so I doubt anybody interesting has found it yet- Where are you going?"

Ral was trudging off to the human world. "Hey, you," he called to a Shinigami. Nobody knew that particular Shinigami's name – he just sat at the base of a rock formation with his Death Note on his lap. No one had seen him jot a name down in decades. "Lend me that Death Note, will you? Thanks." Ral scooped the notebook off of the Shinigami's lap and continued on his way.

Ryuk chuckled. He'd recently dropped his own Death Note into the human world with Ral's. He figured he may as well get one other Shinigami moving around there. Ryuk sat down and crossed his legs, lounging. Ral could go and start looking now if he wanted, but Ryuk planned on waiting another day or so. He wanted somebody cool to find his Death Note.

-Q-

Harry was in charge of cooking breakfast, as he often was nowadays. Dudley sat in the living room, watching obnoxious cartoons, and Vernon was fixing himself up for work. Petunia leaned against the fridge, talking to Yvonne over the phone. Harry vaguely noted the horrified expression on her face, and wondered what juicy gossip Yvonne could possibly be divulging unto his aunt.

"Dear, that is horrible!" cried Petunia. "And she's only ten! Nobody should be having _heart attacks_ at that age. Goodness, what will you do? Your poor little girl!"

Dudley looked tempted to yell at his mother to shut up, but even he was smart enough to know it wouldn't be appreciated. Harry, as he turned the bacon over, had to wonder what had happened. It sounded like they were talking about Yvonne's daughter, but Petunia was throwing around the phrase 'heart attack'. Ten-year-olds didn't just up and kick off like old men.

Petunia hung up and Vernon thumped down the stairs, straightening his tie.

"Vernon, you would not believe what Yvonne's just told me," Petunia said as her fat husband sat at the table. "You know Yvonne's little girl, Stacy? She had a _heart attack_ last night! Right at the table."

Harry could tell Vernon was stuck on who Yvonne was supposed to be, but a slight glare from Petunia caused him to move on. "How old was Yvonne's daughter?" Vernon inquired as Harry piled some bacon and toast onto his plate.

"Just ten," Petunia tutted. "You have to wonder what that girl got into. Such a waste, though. Stacy was a sweet child."

Harry put the rest of the breakfast on the table and stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth before darting through the living room for his cupboard, ignoring Vernon when the whale yelled at him not to run. He needn't tell Dudley breakfast was done – the fat bully could smell cooked meat from ten miles away. Besides, Harry had other things on his mind besides appeasing his family's every whim.

Like that he just might have become a murderer.

His heart threatened to burst out of his chest as he closed the cupboard door and pulled the Death Note out of his backpack. He flipped it open and skimmed through the entry in his 'journal'.

_Stacy Adams called me a hobo after class. Somebody needs to punch her in the face, honestly. It's a nice face and all, but I think somebody needs to mess it up. She's annoying._

He flipped back to the rules and reread them quickly. Oh, God, he'd been thinking of Stacy's face when he'd written that. Now she was dead. Was the Death Note for real? It certainly seemed odd for a ten-year-old to die of a heart attack, and he'd written her name while thinking of her face. Harry sat back on his shoddy bed and chewed his thumb nail.

Was he a murderer? Guilt and fear and shame gnawed at his guts, and he feared he'd throw up.

No, that was impossible. The Death Note would have to be magic for something like that to happen. And if the Dursleys hadn't taught him anything else, it was that magic was nonexistent. Harry tried to calm his racing heart, but to no avail.

Still, even if the Death Note really was a joke, Harry wasn't comfortable using it as a journal anymore.

He picked up the slender volume and stared at it like a hated enemy. He couldn't just throw it out, because if it really worked, someone with morals inferior to his own might pick it up. No, Harry had to destroy it completely.

The fireplace. The Dursleys didn't fire it up a lot, but every now and then, Vernon would have a bad day and burn the letters from charities, begging for donations, and the pamphlets from Jehovah's witnesses instead of simply tossing them in the rubbish bin. God, he hoped Vernon had a bad day today.

Harry took a deep breath to calm his thundering heart, and hid the Death Note under his thin mattress. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and opened the door and exited into the entryway.

His mouth fell open and his eyes widened to twice their normal size.

The creature before him looked like anybody's portrayal of Satan himself. It was tall, with four twisted goat horns – one of which was broken off midway – and small red eyes. Its head looked like a demonic skull with just enough leathery, gray skin stretched over it to form a mouth over pointed, yellowed teeth. Long, black, and muscled arms attached to its torso, ending in a pair of clawed hands. Its bottom half was that of a black goat, with a long barbed tail that twitched and swished around the entryway. Its breathing was heavy and raspy, and he had a beaten leather satchel. To top it all off, it had large wings folded against his back that seemed to be just bones, with some leathery material to make them technical wings.

It was, by far, the most horrifying creature that Harry had ever laid eyes upon. He would have – maybe should have – screamed for all he was worth, but as it was, all he could do was shuffle fearful back into his cupboard and stare in horror and fascination at the monster before him.

"I watched you through the little peep-hole there," rasped the beast. "You found my Death Note? I hoped for someone who looked a bit more like they were about to pop off."

Harry just gaped at it.

"I should probably do some explaining, shouldn't I?" groaned the thing, pausing to stretch. Harry noticed the bandages around its waist, and wondered what on God's green earth could possibly hurt this thing enough for it to require any form of medical attention. "You, kid, found my Death Note. I watched you, and it's become apparent to me that you've figured out how it works, on the most basic level. I am a Shinigami, a death god. Name's Ral. Anyway, I have to follow you around until you die, then I get my Death Note back and go home. Clear?"

Harry's train of thought had completely derailed and crashed into an orphanage. This was ridiculous, impossible. Was he dreaming? He pinched his arm absently to be sure, but only succeeded in giving himself a rather nasty bruise.

For as long as Harry could remember, his family had been telling him that magic, ghosts, religious entities, and gypsies did not exist, or simply shouldn't in the gypsies' case, and that the very mention of such things was punishable by a month in the cupboard and unsatisfactory suppers. But now a – a _death god, _basically the very embodiment of what Harry had spent his entire life believing could not exist – stood right before him.

"So... yeah. Kid, you're making this really awkward," the Shinigami, Ral, said. "Do you, what, have any questions or anything?"

"Are you... you're real?" Harry breathed. "Can I – er, if it isn't too rude – can I touch you?" It was an odd request, but Harry wanted to be sure he wasn't hallucinating.

Ral regarded Harry with a bit of a bemused expression. "No thanks, kid. I meant about the Death Note. What is there... You wanna make the deal? Get some Shinigami eyes? Only half your remaining lifespan, and even if I did take that, it looks like you'll be living for a while," Ral said. Harry got the feeling he was unused to this.

"I didn't know that Shimegamee were a thing," Harry stated, still quite taken and quite scared of Ral.

"It's 'Shinigami'," grumbled Ral. "Say it with me: Shi-ni-ga-mi. Don't you know how to talk?"

Harry ignored that. "Do unicorns exist, too?" he demanded, seriously questioning the validity of all his earthly knowledge. Despite that Ral had basically told Harry to keep his hands off, Harry snatched up his barbed tail and began inspecting it, eyes alight with childish wonderment. Ral jerked away, but Harry's grip on his tail was superb.

"Let go, and- unicorns? Of course not," snapped Ral.

"How about witches? Or ghosts? Dragons? How many Sh- Shi-ni-ga-mi are there? How did you get here?" Harry asked. He asked each question in rapid succession, not giving Ral any time to answer, even if he had intended to.

"Let_ go," _rasped Ral, finally just physically untangling Harry's dainty hands and pushing the child away.

It was then that Dudley trudged through the entryway. Harry froze, fearful. What would the Dursleys do if they saw Ral? But Dudley didn't give any indication that he noticed Ral's presence. He simply shoved Harry to the side with a sneer and trumped up the stairs. Harry frowned. "Didn't he see you?"

"Only you've touched the Death Note," Ral said, "so only you can see me. Anyway, have you got a TV here? I admit, I'm a bit of a sucker for you human's television. I like the news."

Ral floated off to the living room, and Harry followed, completely fixated on the strange creature. Petunia was sitting on the sofa and watching a stick-skinny woman talk about how Stacy had died of a heart attack at the age of ten, and Ral settled down behind her. Harry was told to go wash the dishes, and he did so.

But his mind was far, far away. Dragons. Sorcerers. _Gods._ His mind was reeling, and his found that his pure fascination was beginning to outweigh his guilt and his fear.

Forget morals – he owned something that could kill people with only a name and a face. He knew a freakin' _god of death. _The Dursleys had lied to him. Magic did exist, and Harry had a Death Note to prove it. Harry's eyes drifted over to Ral, who was sitting on top of the sofa and had started yelling at the news woman that Stacy Adams had been killed by a Death Note. ("Duh! Ignorant mortals.")

Harry grinned, and nearly broke a plate, for he was holding it so hard.

Yesterday, his life was utter crap. Now, it was getting interesting.

-Q-

"Ral," whispered Harry, just loud enough for the Shinigami to hear him through the door. It was the dead of night, and all of Number 4 laid sleeping. But not Harry – he was still too excited about the magic.

"Hm?" Ral grunted from outside.

"I was going to burn the Death Note, but I think I just won't use it that much now – I want to study it. Maybe I'll test it every now and then, on people who deserve it, but I just want to learn more about magic," Harry explained. He'd been thinking about it ever since he'd calmed down about meeting Ral, though that had only been a mere four hours ago.

Ral scoffed. "It isn't magic, kid. It's just death."

Harry allowed himself a small smile, and closed his eyes. Maybe Ral was right. Maybe it was just a murder weapon. But Harry was starting to feel like it was the absolute most brilliant thing there was.

He was lulled to sleep by the sound of Ral's raspy breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own jack squat. Except for Ral – Ral is mine.

*Chapter title is a line from 'I Try' by Macy Gray.

**Chapter Two**

**Fate Has Brought Us Here**

Harry had arrived at the library the moment its doors were unlocked, and had been reading and browsing and jotting down notes in his old math notebook since. It was beginning to descend into evening now, and his passionate searching had thus been rendered irrelevant. Ral told him as much, too.

"What do you expect to find here, seriously?" scowled Ral, sneering slightly at the library's dusty shelves and volumes. "Humans are too stupid to know anything useful, especially about the Death Note."

Harry just shrugged, eyes squinting as his Year-5 reading level was put to the test with the word 'dermatoglyphics'. He paused to make sure the tired librarian and shady individual who'd been skulking about the library were nowhere to be seen. "I don't care if it's hopeless," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "Even if something like it is just mentioned in passing..."

Ral rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Can we go? The evening news will be on soon, and I don't want to miss it due to the likes of you."

Harry sighed and marked his pages in the books he'd have propped open. He carefully replaced them on the shelf and left. On his way out, he bid the droopy-eyed librarian a small wave. She grimaced in a way that made Harry think she really didn't want to be there.

-Q-

The next few days passed in much of the same fashion. Harry would wake before the rest of his relatives, take care of general house-keeping while Ral watched the morning news, snatch something from the kitchen, and flee before Petunia was conscious enough to shriek at him. The whole day would be spent in a fruitless search for things of, or relating to, death and magic. Harry grew to know the librarian by her first name – Shelly – and had indulged in idle conversation with the shady skulker. He was rather sure the man was a child molester, and after seeing his face on the news the fifth morning, his suspicions were confirmed.

"Why don't you kill him?" wondered Ral.

"He hasn't done anything to me," Harry had said.

"He had the bodies of three toddlers in his basement."

Harry supposed Ral had a point. The man had mysteriously died of a fatal heart attack later that night. Harry refused to think of himself as a hero, retaining that he was just making the world a bit safer for everyone else.

Several days into this routine, Harry had a bit of a late start. He'd overslept and Petunia had come rapping on his cupboard door, ordering him to watch the sausage and fetch the mail. Harry had hastily pulled on a pair of over-sized trousers and his trainers before going to get the mail. Standing at the door, he lazily flipped through the post. Two bills, a postcard from Aunt Marge – he idly wondered if he should use her as the subject of Death Note experiments – another bill, and a letter for Harry-

_A letter for Harry?_

He stuffed it down the front of his pants and made sure his shirt hid it, which it did, as the shirt itself was several times the size of Harry. Obviously from the hands of Dudley, for his cousin was, by all means, a whale. Speaking of Dursley filth...

Harry wandered into the kitchen and handed Vernon the mail. Dudley thumped in, clad in his brand-new Smeltings uniform. As Harry tended to the sausage, he privately though of how truly ridiculous his cousin looked. Ral also seemed to think Dudley looked stupid, but happily shared his thoughts. "He looks like a fruitcake! Like a literal fruitcake, the kind you have to bury to get rid of," marveled Ral, jumping around the fat boy, eyes wide and befuddled.

Harry snickered out the corner of his mouth as he fixed the sausage. He quickly finished and was directed to the garden by Petunia. With a filthy look to his aunt, he complied. But he was hardly thinking of flowers. Nay, his mind was focused, like a sniper with a grudge, on his letter.

Once he was safely outside, he pulled the letter out of his pants and tore it open with a vengeance, hardly noticing the sleek green letters or the wax seal.

His read the paper hungrily, wondering whom on God's green earth would write to him.

As he read, his eyes only got wider. Ral, who had been watching the television through the window, had his attention drawn elsewhere. Not by any noise, but by the absence of noise. It had become commonplace for Harry to share a large portion of his thoughts aloud whenever they were alone. Ral skipped over to Harry and peered over his shoulder.

His laughter rang all through Privet Drive, though it could only be heard by Harry. "Wizard school?" chuckled Ral once he got himself mostly under control. "Whom is that from? Tell me – quick! I think I may kill this one for such a bad joke."

"I used to think the Death Note was a joke," Harry mumbled, staring thoughtfully into space. Ral realized that the human was utterly serious and groaned, hiding his face with his hands. Harry continued as if Ral had been silent. "It says here that they 'expect my owl'. Any idea what that means?"

Ral scoffed and gestured vaguely to the barn owl that had been perched on the fence: "Maybe tie your confirmation to a bird?" He sauntered off, still giggling quietly. But Harry's expression remained thoughtful.

"Ral, get me a pen."

"What am I, your servant?"

"Shut up," Harry snapped. "If this is real, we've just discovered wizards. Real magic, Ral – _right under our noses. _Go get me a pen!"

Petunia popped her head outside, red-faced and expression pinched. "Boy, do your chores!" she ordered harshly. Ral slipped into the house and quickly returned with a ballpoint pen in hand. The Dursleys had been too fixated either on their food or their television to notice an inanimate object floating through their house and being pushed out an open window.

Harry verbalized his thanks and jotted a quick confirmation into the back of the envelope. That owl on the fence – it had been staring at him for a while now, pretty much the entire time Ral had been absent. Harry folded his response and approached it warily. He had no – well, very little – doubt in his mind that this was what the letter meant by 'owl'. How often did owls hang around, in board daylight, in suburban areas, staring intently at children with those wide, _knowing _eyes?

"Hello," Harry whispered to the owl as he approached. Unsure of exactly what to do, he held the folded note out to the owl. It looked about ready to just fly away when it suddenly snatched the note out of Harry's hand with its talons. Harry jumped back and stared, half-amazed, half-bewildered, as the owl gave a slight jut of its head and flew off. To the sound of Ral's snickers, Harry mouthed the word 'wow'.

A Death Note, a letter, and magic all in the same summer?

Harry happily tended to Petunia's garden. He gladly did the Durlseys laundry. The zeal with which he performed scheduled household chores bordered on the baffling. Typically, and obviously, this would not be the case, but with so many good things happening, Harry just couldn't bring himself to be a stick in the mud.

-Q-

Harry's first thought when he woke was his letter. He jumped up and nearly fell out, but managed to steady himself. With a shaky chuckle, he rescued his precious letter from under the mattress, reviewing for the millionth time the items on the list. A pewter cauldron, spell books, a magic wand... He had to admit to himself, he could see why Ral thought of it as a joke. Maybe it all was just an elaborate prank – but Harry wanted to believe it so badly.

Harry began to place the papers back under his mattress and start his day when a thought occurred to him. He smacked his forehead and groaned.

Whom was he kidding? He had no way to get these things. Wizard robes? Really? Even that sounded iffy, even though he could just pick one up at a costume shop. And on the subject of shops: Harry hadn't a pence to his name, let alone enough to buy all these things. He was pretty sure you couldn't even buy a magic wand in London.

Harry bit his lip, considering, as his gaze flickered between his letter and the door. Perhaps... But no, they would never...

Harry realized this was the first time in his life that he had something to lose, and the only way to keep it was to risk it all. Resigned, he dressed himself and sulked out of his cupboard, acceptance letter and list of school supplies in hand. As usual, Ral was watching the morning news over Dudley's shoulder, cackling loudly whenever the topic of crime or death was brought up. Petunia sat at the table with a cup of coffee, and from what Harry could hear, Vernon was shuffling around upstairs.

_That man needs to lose some weight,_ Harry thought out of nowhere. He banished the thought as soon as it entered his head, and he approached Petunia with ten times the hesitation he had the owl. "Aunt Petunia," he began, pausing to take a deep, uneven breath, "I got I letter yesterday that said I was accepted to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Coffee was spat out of Petunia's mouth, and Harry was only just quick enough to avoid getting splattered by the sludge. Petunia coughed and hacked for a good three minutes, earning a concerned look from her son and bouts of laughter on Ral's behalf.

"_What?"_ she demanded, her voice considerably higher than normal.

"I got accepted to wizard school," Harry repeated, waving his letter at her. "I mean, it's probably a joke, but..." Harry trailed off.

'But'.

But, he was fairly certain that magic did exist. The Death Note and Ral were obvious indicators, but other, smaller things also contributed to his new belief in such fantasy. One time, Petunia had tried forcing an obnoxious sweater onto him, but it had somehow shrunk to the size of a hand puppet. His hair seemed to be capable of growing several inches over night. When he had been fleeing from Dudley's gang, he'd somehow wound up on the roof.

Petunia interrupted his thoughts. "Yes, boy, it probably is just a sick prank," snarled Petunia, glaring daggers at her nephew. "Now go throw that paper out and get started on your-"

"No." Harry's word made Petunia freeze. She was accustomed to him being quiet and compliant, occasionally giving snark out the side of his mouth. However, that simple, one-syllable word had been spoken with such confidence, such defiant force, that Petunia was momentarily stunned. Momentarily. She quickly recovered.

Petunia puffed out her chest and put her hands on her hips, standing to her full height and glaring at Harry. "Throw. It. Out," she hissed. "And forget such silly things, boy. Magic isn't real."

Harry met her gaze with staggering certainty. "Yes, it does. And I'm going to magic school," he replied coolly.

"Don't you be a fool-"

"Why don't you stop being such a jerk?" snapped the child. Petunia let out an offended gasp, which was quickly followed by a slap across the face. Harry damned her long arms, for had they been any shorter, she'd not have been able to reach across the table. It was also at that moment when Vernon finally hauled himself downstairs. He regarded the sight of his wife slapping his nephew with revolting relish and helped himself to some coffee, trusting Petunia to deal with Harry's disobedience and not minding that breakfast hadn't been prepared yet. Seeing Harry get smacked about had already made his day.

Petunia grabbed Harry by the front of his shirt from over the table and hissed the words in his ear, "You may not speak to me that way again, _freak._ Now give me the letter."

Harry's insides felt cold and hot at the same time, and as he looked upon his aunt, he could have sworn the edges of his vision grew red. His fist tightened around the paper. No, he'd been pushed around long enough. The Dursleys could hit him, they could shut him in a cupboard, they could starve him and call him names – but Harry refused to be lied to, even if they were lies he'd grown up with. _Especially _if they were lies he'd grown up with.

"Aunt Petunia," he muttered, "I am a wizard. I can do magic, because it's real. Stop saying things that aren't true."

Petunia leaned back and regarded him icily. He could practically see the thoughts behind her eyes. She wanted to hurt him – wanted to so badly – but she knew what that could potentially do to their image. If any of their neighbors found out that Mr. and Mrs. Dursley had beaten their freak nephew, they'd be ruined. Harry could see anger, though. Anger and... fear?

"You knew, didn't you?" he demanded quietly. "You knew magic was real."

Petunia sighed and leaned against the table, still staring at Harry disgustedly. Vernon had heard enough to give his wife and nephew's discussion his absolute attention. Ral observed with bated breath.

"I knew," Petunia finally said, her voice oddly sticky. She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Of course I knew, what with Lily being the freak she was, coming home from that- that _school, _with that _friend_ of hers. She made biscuits float at the table and was always changing the colors of my clothes." From anyone else, her words may have sounded fond, but Petunia spoke every syllable with particular disgust. "Oh, but Mummy and Daddy were so taken with her. Everything was 'Lily this' and 'Lily that'. Revolting, all of them, and so foolish. I was the only one who saw her for what she was – a no good, unholy _freak of nature!"_

By now, even Dudley was paying complete attention.

"Drama, drama," tutted Ral, even though he was amused by the events.

"How did she die?" demanded Harry abruptly. He got the feeling it wasn't actually a car crash.

Petunia sneered. "She and her freak-husband managed to get themselves _blown up," _she told. "And we got landed with you. I knew – me and Vernon both – we knew that you would grow up just like them, so we tried to squeeze that stuff out of you. I guess your freakishness is a little more persistent that we thought."

Harry frowned at his aunt, suddenly feeling very, very empty. At least he thought it was 'emptiness'. Harry, quite honestly, wasn't sure what he was feeling now. Petunia smirked down at him, arms folded, and Vernon growled by the refrigerator. Dudley just looked around, far more confused than anything else.

Petunia's smirk lessened when she noticed the rattling of the windows. Her eyes filled with slight fear as her gaze was drawn to the dishes, also vibrating. "Vernon-" she began, but she cut herself off with a scream, as suddenly, every bowl, plate, window, vase, screen and glass object shattered. Vernon yelped and Dudley and Ral wailed in unison upon the television screen breaking.

Harry stormed back to his cupboard, followed closely by Ral. He slammed the door and got the Death Note out. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was reading the rules and choosing exactly how he wished to do this. He whipped out a writing utensil and, in what meager light seeped in through the door, began scrawling:

_Vernon Dursley will persuade his wife to take her nephew to a place where he can get Hogwarts school supplies, and then die on the first of September this year, at eleven A.M._

Harry took a deep breath and put his Death Note back in its hiding spot under the mattress. He laid out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, letting the cold fury drain away, allowing his heartbeat to settle.

"Hey, kid," growled Ral from the entryway, "that was pretty cool."

-Q-

Harry stepped lightly passed Vernon and Petunia's room, not wishing to disturb them. After his episode earlier with the glass, his family had been extremely wary of him. Dudley had screamed and ran when Harry finally emerged from his cupboard so many, many hours later. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what Petunia or Vernon would do.

But despite how he wished to avoid his relatives, Harry needed to brush his teeth, and the only way to achieve that was by passing by their bedroom.

On the way back, however, he caught a snippet or so of conversation. He bit his lip, and pressed his ear to the door:

"-just think of it, Petunia. All the glass! Every last windowpane, because he was angry," Vernon was saying. There was real terror in his voice. Harry smiled. It seemed his Death Note was taking effect... "I... I don't think we can keep up as we've been doing."

"Vernon-"

"No, listen: He knows now. He saw what he can do with his- his _stuff._ Petunia, what if next time he gets angry, it's more than just glass?"

"I don't see how sending him to _stuff _school will help." Petunia's voice was sticky again.

"He'll be gone most of the time," Vernon explained, "and he won't be as angry at us if we let him go. Please, Petunia – think of Dudley. What if the boy goes after him next? I don't like it any more than you do – in fact, I dare say I like it even less – but we have to think of what's safest in the long run."

Harry had heard enough. With a small smile playing on his lips, he continued merrily on his way, hands stuffed in his pockets and a spring in his step.

-Q-

The next morning, Harry was woken up at the crack of dawn by loud rapping on his cupboard door. "I'm up, I'm up," he groaned. "Give me ten seconds, why don't you?" Harry opened the door and stared, bleary-eyed, at his aunt. It was especially hard to see her, considering that he was currently devoid of his glasses.

"Get dressed," ordered Petunia. "You can go to your freak school, okay? I'm sending you to get your supplies today." She didn't wait for Harry's answer, just stomped away yelling at Harry to be quick. Harry grinned like a madman as he pulled on his over-sized pants and a clean shirt. He scrubbed his teeth briskly and met Petunia outside.

"I have to wonder where you're gonna get this stuff," Ral commented idly. Harry paid him no heed. His family already knew he was a wizard, and he didn't want them to know he had a Death Note on top of it. Harry's breath caught as he was clambering into the car: _I'm a wizard,_ he thought, and damn-near descended into a fit of gleeful giggles.

Petunia drove his absolute silence, staring ahead with stony eyes. An hour passed without a word being spoken, though Ral did occasionally comment on passerby sense of dress. Harry would have told him to stop being so very judgmental of the mortals, but the people Ral pointed out did dress very strangely.

Finally, Petunia stopped the car outside a small soap shop in London. She got out of the car and Harry followed her, wondering where his aunt was leading him. They stopped a street and a half down, a place slightly more populated than where Petunia parked.

Harry peered curiously at her as she hailed a cap. A car pulled over and Petunia shoved Harry in, stopping to explain to the driver where he was going. She paid him ahead of time and turned on Harry. She shoved a few notes in his hand. "That should be enough to get you home," she said testily. She turned to leave, but paused briefly. "Oh, and be back before five. You still have chores, regardless of any _skills."_

The driver was a little befuddled by Petunia's attitude towards Harry, but drove anyway.

"So, any clue where you're going?" asked the cabby, sounding a little concerned.

"Yes," lied Harry. "I've been plenty of times before, and I can take care of myself."

Ral scoffed, squeezed in beside Harry. "You'd probably have been beaten to death by your cousin by now, were you not a _wizard,"_ Ral declared. He spoke the word 'wizard' mockingly. Harry got the distinct feeling that Ral still wasn't entirely convinced there was a magic school. No matter. Harry was certain of its existence.

They reached their destination and Harry hopped out, clumsily thanking the cabby. The man regarded him with concern, but had apparently believed Harry when he said he took the trip often. Besides – the kid's mom or aunt or whatever had given him money to get home. Still, in front of a dingy, deserted building? He shook his head and drove away.

"Do you think this is it?" Harry asked, regarding the pub curiously. It looked far more magical than any other building on the street, what with a name like the 'Leaky Cauldron'. Harry peered through the window, frowning. He couldn't see inside. Harry stood back and looked on thoughtfully. Had Petunia lied – _again? _Why would she? It wasn't like she had anything to gain from that. Harry hastily recounted his money. It was plenty to get him home, so even if her plan had been to get rid of him...

He resigned himself. Why not? Harry pushed the door open.

The pub was warm and dimly lit, and scarcely populated. Harry peered about curiously, but refocused his attention when the barkeep approached. "Hogwarts, lad? Let me lead you out back-" started the man, but froze when he saw Harry's face.

Harry panicked for a moment. Did he see Ral? Did he _know?_ But then his face split into a wide smile, and he looked rather flustered. "My stars, if it isn't Harry Potter! Tom's the name, welcome to the Leaky Cauldron," the man, Tom, said, grabbing Harry's hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

"You know me?" Harry inquired, his voice rising enough at the end to make a question.

Tom laughed. "Of course, everybody knows you. You're Harry Potter."

"Am I famous or something?"

Tom let out a fond chuckle, but stopped short when he realized that Harry was completely serious. He grabbed Harry by the shoulder and led him out back. Harry's instincts told him to fight the grown man trying to forcibly drag him to privacy, but he was too intrigued. At least he seemed to be in the right place, if Tom's first inquiry was anything to go by.

"Back off, folks, he hasn't even any clue what he's famous for," snapped Tom, waving away two old woman and a fair-haired man, all of whom looked far too excited meet Harry.

Harry was pulled through a door, which was quickly slammed. Harry and Ral inspected the small area, unimpressed with the brick wall and rubbish bins. "Okay," Tom sighed, "so you really have no idea what you've done to be so famous?"

Harry frowned. "I didn't even know I was a wizard until I got my letter," he admitted. He added, at Tom's bewildered expression, "My relatives aren't fond of magic, much, so they seemed to have forgotten to mention it until recently."

Tom nodded, gazing at Harry thoughtfully. "Well, um, the gist of it is – how do I put this? - there was a very, very bad man, who killed a great many people for the sake of killing a great many people," Tom began. Harry and Ral shared a look, which confused Tom very much, but he continued on anyway. "Halloween, a decade ago, this man – he was the Dark Lord – came to your home and he, er... He killed your parents in cold blood and tried to kill you as well. And he just couldn't, it seemed. After that, you just disappeared, but Dumbledore – Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts, that is – assured everyone you were alive and safe. We were all safe after that, what with You-Know-Who – the Dark Lord – being dead."

Harry leaned against the brick wall. "So, I'm wizard-famous because I'm not dead yet?" he summarized.

"And You-Know-Who _is,"_ added Tom.

Harry nodded in understanding, though he actually understood little. His parents had been murdered by a Dark Lord? Actually, the very existence of a 'Dark Lord' seemed ludicrous. No more ludicrous that a notebook that kills people, but still. "Except I don't know who," Harry pointed out, thinking he'd ponder this information later. "Did this Dark Lord have a name?"

Tom suddenly looked fearful, and extremely awkward. "Y-yes, I suppose he did, but-"

"But?" Harry parroted sharply. Ral also prompted Tom, though the barkeeper could only hear the boy.

Tom scratched the back of his head and cringed. "See, no one wants to say his name. W-we're honestly just too scared to..." He trailed off, feeling small under Harry's disbelieving gaze. Tom quickly righted himself, speaking his next words in a mumble, "But I suppose it is silly to fear a name – okay then, it was- was- _Voldemort."_

A satisfied smile graced Harry's face, and Tom sighed. "Please don't make me say it again," he pleaded. Tom whipped out his wand and tapped a few bricks. "But, I digress. Here's Diagon Alley then; I'd suggest you go to Gringotts first. I've heard that the Potters have a rather considerable fortune under their wings, and if what you've told me is true, then I doubt your family has supplied you with satisfactory funds."

Harry gaped as the bricks turned and slid to form a gateway, a gateway leading to the most amazing place he'd ever seen.

-Q-

Harry wanted to see everything at once, but unfortunately, he had only one pair of eyes. Though, through that singular pair of eyes he saw many wonders. A store selling broomsticks, a wand shop, a plethora of owls and cats and toads for sale. He didn't even care if he was ogling.

Ral was privately taken with Diagon Alley himself. It seemed familiar, vaguely, and Ral was sure he had seen a place like this before. Maybe he had, and just forgotten. It didn't seem _too_ far-fetched – some Shinigami managed to forget their own life spans and kill themselves. He turned his eyes on Harry. Perhaps meeting the kid hadn't been a complete waste of time.

Both wished to run around aimlessly and explore this new world – or in Ral's case, kinda-familiar-but-not-really world - but in order to properly do such a thing, Harry had to locate this 'Gringotts'. Luckily, it was hardly a discreet building. In fact, Harry dared say it was the most elaborate structure in Diagon Alley. He approached it, feeling slightly cowed as he eyed the marble stairs and imposing columns.

The inside was just as, if not more so, prestigious. The floors were shiny and marble like the outside stairs, and the ceilings were high. Harry found himself staring at the numerous small, sneering creatures behind each of the desks. He was quite bemused by their long ears and feet.

He approached the front podium meekly. "Um," he hummed awkwardly. The creature stopped writing and peered at him, sneering.

"Can I help you?" it asked. It saw that Harry was a child and scowled. "Muggleborn? Get out of here. Gringotts does not have infinite funds to throw at children. We are a _bank, _not a charity. Get your parents to exchange Muggle money for proper currency."

"Sorry," Harry said, flinching, "but, the barkeep said my family is supposed to have something of a fortune here-"

"Name," demanded the thing blandly.

Harry was a bit thrown off. "Oh, uh – Harry Potter, sir," Harry said.

The thing peered at him, curious. He noticed how it fiddled with its spectacles. "Show me your forehead," it ordered. Harry, confused, lifted up his fringe for the thing. It exhaled, long and deep, leaning back in its seat. "I see. Tell me, Mr. Potter – do you currently possess your Gringotts vault key?"

Harry blushed. "Er, no, sir. I didn't even know I was a wizard until recently," he explained.

The thing scoffed. "No matter. We'll just make you a copy, but we will require a few drops of blood. Seven, to be exact."

"That sounds nice," said Harry, unsure of exactly what was happening, or how his _forehead _had convinced it of who he was. As the thing called another creature by the name 'Quandrock', Harry shared a brief look with Ral. Ral shrugged.

The second creature, Quandrock, arrived with a slip of parchment and a small knife. "Seven drops of blood," it said busily, grabbing Harry by the wrist and cutting across his thumb. Quandrock squeezed seven drops of blood onto the parchment, and with a nod, turned to leave. "Wait-!" Harry burst out. Quandrock stopped in his tracks, regarding Harry exasperatedly. "Er, what are you guys?"

Quandrock rolled his eyes, and the thing at the podium let its forehead fall onto its ledger. "We are goblins," explained Quandrock, before departing.

"Goblins," Harry murmured, smiling. The thing – goblin, Harry now knew – at the podium instructed Harry to wait until they had his key. He was directed to the wall, where he waited with a grin, staring at Ral triumphantly. To the casual onlooker, Harry appeared to be a mentally challenged Muggleborn who had lost his parents in the unfamiliar wizard world.

"Hey, Ral," Harry started, when he was certain no one would hear him. "If goblins exist, and wizards exist-"

"There are no unicorns," snapped Ral, sounding disgusted.

An argument could have certainly broken out, had Quandrock not returned with Harry's new key. Harry noted the new goblin at Quandrock's heels. "Your new key," Quandrock offered Harry. He then gestured to the new goblin. "Griphook here shall lead you to the Potter Vault. Griphook, he is in your hands."

Griphook nodded. "This way, please."

-Q-

Harry walked out of Gringotts with heavy pockets and a light stomach. As it turned out, Tom was right – his parents had left him _quite _a fortune. Harry knew next to nothing about his father, aside from, vaguely, what he was supposed to look like, but apparently the man had been loaded. Griphook had taken pity on Harry and explained how much the fortune was in Muggle currency, and from what Harry understood, he was damn-near a millionaire. Though, Griphook mentioned he only had access to a small, small portion of that until he came of age at seventeen.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" mumbled Ral.

Harry just grinned, and whipped out his supply list.

He first went to pick up his cauldron and other potion supplies. On the way out he spotted a store with a 'Magical Shrinking Trunk: Bigger on the Inside and Grows or Shrinks at Your Command!'. He'd been allowed to test it in the store, and had left with it, quite literally, in his pocket.

At Madam Malkin's, he purchased an extra three robes beside just a school set. From the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, he could tell that wizards and witches rarely went out in 'Muggle' (a term he now knew meant 'non-magical person) clothes, and even when they did they had a cloak over it all.

Harry wasn't a Muggle, and had no intention of appearing as one in the magical world.

Flourish and Blotts had been all but robbed by Harry's persistent thirst for magical knowledge. He went in intending only to come out with school books, but far too many intriguing titles caught his eye. _100 Spells to Save Your Life_ and _The Dark Forces Unraveled: An Expert Guide on Understanding the Exact Mechanisms Behind Vile Magic _being among the dozens. The clerk was a bit thrown off by Harry's pile, and had lazily inquired, "Ravenclaw, I take it?"

"Huh?"

"Muggleborn, then. Hogwarts is divided into four Houses, and Ravenclaw's the smart one," the clerk explained.

Harry nodded in understanding. "I see. Well, I haven't been to Hogwarts yet, so..."

"I think you'll be in Ravenclaw," the clerk shrugged, as he began ringing up Harry's purchases.

Harry had far less money than he had leaving Gringotts, but he now had a magical shrinking trunk full of magical books, so he cared not. "You know what, Ral?" Harry asked. "Today has been a good day."

"It's also been a late day," nodded Ral, leaning over and checking an unsuspecting young witch's watch. "Your aunt said to be back by five o'clock, correct? It's nearly eight now."

Harry gave a small chuckle. "No matter." His tone was vague and uncaring. Ral rolled his eyes and continued following Harry back towards the Leaky Cauldron, but nearly tripped over Harry when the boy stopped abruptly. Which made little sense – Ral, being a Shinigami, could just float through the world completely unnoticed and spectral like a ghost. He had to wonder why he allowed himself to almost _trip. _

Harry darted off to the left. Well, not darted, per se, but walked briskly and with no small degree of purpose. Ral scowled and quickly followed. He half-noted a sign labeled 'Knockturn Alley', and half-scoffed at the horrid pun. Upon a moment of reflection, he burst out laughing at 'Diagon Alley' as well. _Wizards,_ he thought smugly, before remembering that he was supposed to be following Harry. He was in luck, for the child had not gone far.

It was painstakingly obvious that Knockturn Alley was the 'shady' part of town. It was dim and damp and scarcely populated, as opposed to Diagon Alley, which was bright, welcoming, and bursting with people.

Harry looked around, thankful that he had elected to wear one of his new robes out. With his hood up, he didn't look _too_ out of place. However, one or two shady fellas glared or sneered at him as he passed. Harry hunched his shoulders and stared more at the ground to fit in better.

It wasn't long before one shop in particular caught his eye. _Borgin and Burkes._ It looked like something of a magical pawn shop. Harry grinned. If there were any books about death magic, Harry had a feeling he could find one or two here. A sign told him it was still open, despite the impending night, so he pushed the door open and ogled the artifacts inside. The whole place was dingy, but still quite interesting.

Harry's eyes followed shelves of odd tidbits – a disembodied hand, a jar of shrunken heads, a jeweled pendant – until he found what interested him most. On the bottom shelf, close to the back of the store, was a few dozen old books. He quickly stooped to inspect them. He pulled out several volumes, checking the price and title, before putting them in a stack beside him. If he'd thought _Flourish and Blotts_ had been the 'icing on the cake', _Borgin and Burkes_ was an entirely different cake of superior make, vastly more delicious frosting and an extra layer. It was probably also a chocolate cake, because the books Harry found were no vanilla.

"Looking for some light reading material?"

Harry jumped and whirled around, greeted by the sight of an aging man with missing teeth and a greedy glint in his eye. He quickly calmed himself. "Ah, yes. Yes, sir," Harry nodded, standing and picking up his stack of books. "I would like to purchase all of these books." He waited a moment before gesturing vaguely to another book on the shelf. "And that one."

The smile slipped off his face a bit and was replaced with a slight scowl, but he led Harry to the counter anyway.

Harry was rather surprised that the man didn't try and persuade him against buying such dark books. Greedy for certain, then. Harry gave him the galleons and was on his way quickly, but stopped short when something new caught his eye, and reminded him of something he'd forgotten. It was long, thin, with white wood and a shiny finish. A wizard's wand.

"How much is that?" asked Harry, inclining his head to the wand.

The man blanched a bit. Just a bit. "Not for sale, is what it is," he sneered. "Especially not to the likes of you. If you need a wand, go back to Diagon Alley and speak to Ollivander. I'll sell you books, but I refuse to sell you that wand."

Harry sighed. "Bummer." He turned to leave, but stopped short. "Oh, one last thing: What's your name, sir?"

The man scowled. "Thaddeus Borgin. Why?"

Harry shrugged. "I was just curious. I may come back to see about any books that pass through here," Harry explained.

Ral grinned and his eyes shined like two rubies in his skull. That Harry, though.

Harry enlarged his trunk quickly and set his new books beside the ones obtained at _Flourish and Blotts._ He shrunk it down and stuffed it back in his pocket, but Ral caught Harry pull a think black notebook out first. His grin grew larger.

"What are you writing?" Borgin asked sharply.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing." He closed the book and waited.

Borgin was very obviously freaked out, but as the seconds ticked by, he seemed to think it was a joke, and relaxed. A nervous laugh escaped him. "Sense of humor, then? You rascals, these days. Anyway, thank you for shopping at _Borgin and Burkes._ Now _scat-!" _The last word turned into a scream as pain suddenly exploded in his chest.

Borgin fell to his knees, gazing up at the boy, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of a thin scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Harry watched Borgin fall onto his face, and waited a moment to be sure he was dead, before putting the Death Note and trunk away, and pocketing the thin, white wand.

Ral giggled icily. "You greedy bastard."

-Q-

The room was bigger than the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry loved that, but it was still minuscule and felt even smaller with all of Harry's new books covering every flat surface. The Dursleys had surprised him with the gift of Dudley's extra room after he returned from his trip to Diagon Alley. Apparently, Vernon and Petunia agreed that giving Harry some space was in their best interests. Harry enjoyed having a room of his own, and laid, sprawling on his bed, with a book propped up on his chest.

"This is boring," whined Ral. "Found anything yet?"

"Other than a spell that can pull a person's intestines out of any opening of your choosing?" wondered Harry, with an odd sort of smile. "Nah. All these books talk a lot about what you can do with 'dark magic', but from what I can tell, no one actually knows how magic works." He picked his copy of _The Dark Forces Unraveled. _"Even the book that claims to describe the exact workings of dark magic doesn't even glance over the subject. I'll have to write this Everwurst fella a strongly worded letter."

Ral growled. "This is still boring."

Harry sighed in exasperation, and threw his hands up a bit. "Go watch the news," Harry ordered.

"No one is watching the news right now," complained Ral. He suddenly became rather angry. "And you broke the television anyway, what with your little 'don't lie to me' fiasco."

Harry rolled his eyes. "When you say it like that, it just sounds petty," Harry admitted.

"I wouldn't make it sound petty if you had avoided destroying the one thing that has kept me entertained for more than an hour at a time," grumbled Ral, crossing his long arms and glaring at just the world in general. Harry 'hmmed' noncommittally and went back to reading, and he continued to read for the majority of the summer that remained.

The Dursleys didn't call him down often, and usually it was Petunia who would fetch him, only to set him to the task of weeding the garden or washing dishes. Once or twice, Dudley would pop his head in and ask if Harry had eaten anything. For once, Harry was grateful for his cousin's presence, for every time Dudley inquired after Harry's meals, the young wizard would realize it had been a day and a half since his last bite of food and go get a snack.

Harry made five trips back to Diagon and Knockturn Alley that summer. Not once did he return with something – anything – that might have even an inkling to the Death Note's origins. But he did all but memorize his textbooks, along with several volumes he'd taken out of Borgin's hands...

-Q-

Harry and Petunia arrived at King's Cross at ten twenty-four in the morning.

"Good luck," his aunt had said, stiffly, and with a snort. Petunia left briskly, leaving Harry alone at the train station. Harry scowled as she left. Good luck, goodbye, and good riddance. Harry was pleased that he wouldn't have to deal with her until summer.

He turned to Ral with an easy smile. "So, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?" he said.

"Probably between Platform Nine and Platform Ten," sniffed Ral. Harry didn't know how to locate this 'Platform Nine and Three-Quarters', but he supposed Ral's suggestion was best. Harry had pestered Petunia for a clue every chance he got, though the woman had remained firm in her belief that magic should be discussed as little as possible. As she had snapped, "Just look for freaks when you get there."

Harry and Ral located Platforms Nine and Ten, but Harry supposed it was quite a bold long-shot to assume 'Nine and Three-Quarters' would be blatant in its visibility. Harry bit his lip, and his eyes danced between the clock and the different platforms. It was ten forty-five, and he hadn't a clue how to get to the proper platform.

"-Muggles everywhere, so be _discreet-"_ Harry's head snapped in the direction of the oddly convenient snippet of conversation, and quickly shielded his eyes as his retinas were assaulted by a parade of bright red hair. 'Discreet' would be very difficult for those folks to manage, indeed.

Harry's eyes followed them like prey. The herd of gingers – certainly a herd, for he counted at least five – approached Platforms Nine and Ten. A group of tourists passed by, cutting through Harry's line of sight, and when they were gone, there was one less ginger.

_Interesting._

He shuffled towards the redheads, in particular on the oldest one who appeared to be the mother, and began, "Excuse me, ma'am?"

Harry was fixed under a fiery, though not immediately unkind, gaze. "Yes?" the woman prompted.

"Are you lot going to Hogwarts, then?" he asked. "Because I honestly have no idea how to get to the train."

The woman's face split into a large smile, and she clapped Harry one the back. "Ah, Muggleborn, then. Don't worry, dear, it's Ron's first time to. Just walk right on through the border between Platforms Nine and Ten – make sure no Muggles are watching – and don't get nervous either, or it'll block you out. Run at it, if you have to," she explained.

Two more gingers – who appeared to be twins – charged through to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and Harry's eyes widened with gleeful fixation as they strode right through the bricks. Magic was, truly, amazing.

"You go next dear," the woman told him.

"Thank you," Harry said cheerfully, trusting the woman's advice and running at the brick wall. He half-expected to collide with it, but didn't feel anything. Harry stopped and dared to open his eyes, realizing that they'd been squeezed closed.

He was graced by the presence of a bright red steam engine. Harry grinned and turned to look at Ral. The Shinigami shrugged and began trotting towards it. Harry closely followed.

Harry quickly found an empty compartment, and immediately changed into his school robes. "I'm Transfiguring those ghastly Muggle clothes as soon as I can," he declared. He would have already, had the usage of magic outside of Hogwarts not been illegal for minors.

Harry had just situated himself when the compartment door slid open, and one of the gingers – Ron, if he recalled correctly – popped his head in. "Hey," he greeted, inclining his head to an empty seat, "mind if I... Sorry, it's just that everywhere else is all full."

Harry grinned. "Sure. Ron, right? I'm Harry." Harry would have preferred if he'd been alone with Ral the whole journey, but Harry was hardly going to turn down a potential ally.

_Friend,_ he mentally corrected himself. _The word I am looking for is 'friend'._

"So, what House do you think you'll get?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. "I haven't looked into Houses, much, but the man at the bookstore suggested Ravenclaw," Harry said.

"I hope I get Gryffindor," Ron said longingly. "It's the best one – bravery, honor, and all of my brothers have been in Gryffindor besides."

Harry asked how many brothers Ron had, and the ginger answered, sounding rather put-out, "Five, and a little sister. But Ginny isn't going to Hogwarts until next year. You?"

"Only child," Harry answered.

Their conversation drifted to other things. Ron described all four Houses for Harry, horror stories he'd heard from his brothers about the Sorting, his brothers' job, a game called 'Quidditch'... Harry wound up telling Ron about the Dursleys, how they'd lied to him about magic, but he downplayed the nastiness of it all.

Harry decided he enjoyed Ron's company very much, and also considered him a useful source of wizard culture. Harry learned he was something called a 'half-blood', as well as learning of 'Purebloods' and the slur 'Mudblood'.

It wasn't long until there was a knock at their compartment door. A rather chubby young boy with prominent ears popped his head in, awkwardly. "Uh, hey. H-have either of you seen a toad about?" asked the boy.

"No, sorry," Harry said. He pulled out his wand. "What's your name, though? I think I can help."

"Neville Longbottom," the boy, Neville, told.

"_Accio_ Neville Longbottom's toad!" Harry said. They waited in bemused silence for a moment, before rather fat toad flew into the compartment. It smacked against Harry's chest and sent him sprawling. Ron laughed openly and Neville blushed, scolding 'Trevor' the toad, and thanking Harry reverently. As Harry stood, he shrugged and assured Neville that it was no bother at all.

Harry and Ron welcomed Neville to stay with them, but he shook his head. "I'm already sitting with somebody else, and I should go tell her that you've helped me find Trevor. So, I guess I'll see you at the Sorting." He paused on his way out. "Bye."

They bid him farewell, and resumed their conversation. "Poor bloke. He's got a toad, and those went out of fashion years ago," sighed Ron. "My pet's not much better, though. See?" Ron pulled a small hairy bundle out of his robes, and Harry was revolted to learn that his new friend had been carrying a rat around in his pocket. "His name is Scabbers. He doesn't do much besides sleep."

"No, his name is Peter Pettigrew," sniffed Ral, and his face suddenly froze and he regarded the rat curiously. Harry was dying to ask what was on the Shinigami's mind, but he couldn't do that with Ron around.

The train ride was pleasant and uneventful from there. As the sky darkened, Ron thought to change into his own robes, which Harry noticed were too short for him. It hadn't been said outright, but Harry got the distinct feeling that Ron and his family were far from well off.

The train soon came to a stop, and the first years were herded up at Hogsmeade Station by a towering man with a huge, bushy beard and a lantern. Rubeus Hagrid, he said his name was. He led the first years to the edge of a lake, with a huge castle – Hogwarts – looming over it. It took Harry's breath away.

Harry and Ron settled into a boat, shortly joined by Neville and a girl with bushy brown hair and large front teeth.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she introduced herself, as the boats began moving. She turned to Harry. "Your the one who summoned Neville's toad, right? Excellent. I've done a bit of reading myself over the summer, but haven't heard of this '_Accio'_ charm. It's a more advanced one, isn't it? I do hope you'll lend me the book you learned it from. I've learned a couple of spells myself, but they're all lower-level stuff. Observe: _Oculus Reparo!"_ Harry jumped back as there was suddenly a wand in his face, and winced as the duct tape that held his glasses together dissipated. He curiously inspected his spectacles, and was pleased to find they were completely fixed.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm Harry, by the way, but I guess you'd inferred that already. And this is Ron."

Hermione's gaze was considerably less enthusiastic as she regarded Ron. "Pleasure," she greeted testily.

"Mutual," Ron grunted.

Harry was glad to get off the boat, and equally glad to see the castle up close. "It's beautiful," he murmured, though he needn't have gone to the liberty. All the first years were thinking it as well. Even Ral was rather impressed. Few castles were in such good condition, and few in such condition were so elegant to begin with.

If Gringotts had been elaborate, Hogwarts was exquisite.

-Q-

Harry openly gaped at the Great Hall. In the far corners of his mind, he heard Hermione blathering about the enchanted ceiling and a book called _Hogwarts, A History,_ but he didn't really register any of her words. His eyes were drawn to the teacher's table, where an old man with a long white beard and lilac robes sat central. Albus Dumbledore. If what Harry had learned since Diagon Alley was true, this man had something to do with his placement in the Dursley's home.

Professor McGonagall readied a scroll, and at the tap of the headmaster's goblet, the Hall fell silent. Harry smiled as he saw the old hat on the stool beside McGonagall. Turn it into a shoe? Pull a rabbit out? He was intrigued.

And the hat – the Sorting Hat – sang.

Harry glared at Ron for filling his head with notions like 'fight a troll', and Ron glared over at the Gryffindor table, at his older brothers. Fred and George seemed to be trying very hard not to burst out cackling.

The song soon came to an end, and McGonagall cleared her throat and began reading names from the scroll. One by one, firsties shuffled up and took a seat on the stool. The Hat went on, and usually within a minute, they were heading towards the appropriate table. There was a round of applause with every student, and Harry, of course, joined in.

Some people took longer than others – Hermione sat for three minutes before the Hat boomed, "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville also got into Gryffindor.

Some people were sorted almost immediately. After Neville came a pale, blond boy named Draco Malfoy, who was sorted into "SLYTHERIN!" almost before the Hat had touched his head. Harry waited with bated breath for his name to be called.

"Potter, Harry," McGonagall called. A sudden hush fell over the Great Hall. Harry peered nervously over his shoulder, and caught sight of Ron's face. _'Harry Potter?' _Ron mouthed. Harry allowed himself a private grin as he sat on the stool, and the Hat fell over his eyes.

"_Murderer, I see."_ It was the Hat, whispering into Harry's ear.

_Not really. Twice by accident and a child molester._

"_Mr. Borgin would say otherwise."_

_Maybe._

The Hat seemed to sigh. "_You prove... interesting to sort. Definitely a brave one, and I'd be a fool to say you didn't value knowledge. You are loyal, too, I'll give you that. But..."_

_But?_

"_I think Slytherin suits you best, Little Killer. Your thirst for knowledge would make a casual onlooker think of an Eagle, oh, but I know better. I know everything about you now. _SLYTHERIN!" The Hat declared Harry's place before the child had a chance to object. There was a rather robust outburst of objections (from the Gryffindors) and confused cheers (on the Slytherin's behalf).

Harry caught Ron's gaze as he walked towards the Slytherin table, and instantly felt horrid. Ron made no effort to hide the look of betrayal on his face. Harry hoped his new friend could overlook his silly House rivalries.

Dumbledore himself had to rise and demand silence from the Hall. It was an outrage, it was otherworldly. Harry Potter, celebrated Boy-Who-Lived, sorted into the House the Dark Lord had come from? Nobody wanted to believe it. Nobody, that is, except the Snakes.

The Great Hall did settle eventually, and the Sorting Ceremony continued. Ron got his wish for Gryffindor, and Harry clapped much louder than the rest of the Slytherins. They eyed him nastily for applauding Ron Weasley, but Harry didn't give any indication that he cared.

Harry settled down and allowed his eyes to wander. He didn't care about anybody after Ron, and the Sorting was almost over anyway. He raked his eyes over the teacher's table, and happened to catch sight of a teacher's bright purple turban. Harry winced and rubbed his scar as his forehead experienced no small degree of pain. He glared at the turban-teacher. Harry had done a _lot_ of reading on dark magic, and knew for a fact that if a scar from a dark curse still burned ten years later, chances were that it was a very bad thing.

"Funny," commented Ral. "First the rat has a name, and now turban-guy has _two _names." Ral noticed how Harry's eyes snapped into his direction. He told, "Quirinus Quirrell and Tom Riddle."

The Sorting came to an end and the headmaster made a speech, but Harry wasn't listening. He didn't flinch as a magical feast appeared on the table. His eyes were distant and he was unresponsive to all his House-mates. His mind wasn't at the table, but right up there by Quirinus Quirrell.

By Quirinus Quirrell and Tom Riddle.

"Hey, pocket something for me," Ral demanded, watching as Harry absently gnawed on a bite of steak. "I haven't snacked in hours."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own jack squat. Except for Ral – Ral is mine.

*Chapter title is a line from 'Pepper' by the Butthole Surfers.

**Chapter Three**

**Cinnamon and Sugary and Softly Spoken Lies**

Harry returned Pansy Parkinson's sneer with a friendly smile and a cheery wave. Her expression shifted to one of disgusted bewilderment, and she turned to her fiends – Draco Malfoy and one Blaise Zabini – to relay any nasty thoughts.

Harry made a point of ignoring them as he skipped up the steps to his bed. His classes had, honestly, been hit-or-miss. Luckily, most were a hit. McGonagall had started her class by turning into a cat, successfully sealing her pupils interest in Transfiguration. She then proceeded to make a point of demonstrating how no-nonsense her classes were to be. She'd bombarded the class with a quick pop quiz, which Harry utilized to gain Slytherin House fifteen points right off the bat.

Sprout was simply a lovely woman, a woman who sadly went unappreciated by her students. Except Neville. Harry had stopped by the Gryffindor table at lunch and learned that Neville was rather fixated on the topic.

But of course there is no such thing as a single-sided coin.

DADA – Defense Against the Dark Arts – was a total flop. Quirrell was little more than the stuttering remains of a brilliant mind. Could Harry blame him, though? Certainly, to come into possession of a second name, one would have to trudge through Hell and back. That, or Quirrell was acting.

_If he is acting, _Harry thought glumly in DADA, watching the quivering man shriek as a student tossed a ball of parchment at him, _then somebody needs to get this man an Oscar. Or push him into a bin for his cheese._

It was as if Ral could read Harry's thoughts, for the Shinigami quickly grew bored of Quirrell's antics and knocked a book onto the floor. The man promptly stumbled into the hefty volume and tumbled into a conveniently-placed rubbish bin.

Snape's class was far less amusing, and far less thought-provoking. Harry had made his way there early with Draco Malfoy, who had draped his arm around Harry's shoulder and began guiding him around Hogwarts. "I'll gladly take you under my wing, Potter," Malfoy drawled silkily, continuing the pester-fest from the night before. "I can get you off on the right foot with Professor Snape. He _is_ my godfather, you know."

"No, I actually didn't know," Harry admitted, though he knew Malfoy had not desired an honest response to a rhetorical statement.

Malfoy had proved irritating – something about him made Harry want to shake the boy – but Snape had turned out to be ten times worse. His entrance into the classroom was far too dramatic for Harry's liking, and he immediately began acting icy and snappish towards Harry.

Harry didn't consider himself the kind to sass authority figures, but that was mostly because he'd always assumed he was powerless. Knowing now that he could kill Snape with the correct spelling of his name and the image of his prominent conk, Harry's mental barricades were completely absent.

"What are you writing?" demanded Snape harshly.

Harry peeked up from his parchment, and answered innocently, "Just your spiel, Professor." To irk the man, Harry added, "I'm a bit of an insomniac, you see, so this is a simple alternative to medication." In truth, Harry just thought that the man had quite a way with words.

Snape looked about ready to snap Harry's neck then and there, and he could tell that the Gryffindors appreciated the gesture. His fellow Slytherins, however, watched like old maids during the season finale of their favorite soapie.

"Ten points from Slytherin," Snape said evenly.

Harry shrugged, and jotted a small note. Snape's nostrils flared, and he leaned over to look at Harry's paper.

_NTS: Talk to Norma about glitter glue._

Snape hadn't a clue who Norma was, nor what she had to do with glitter glue, but he took the note as more sass and warned Harry about detention.

"Oh, please, Professor!" Harry smiled, with no small degree of giddiness. "Anything to spend more time with _you!"_

"Careful: he might actually do it," warned Ral.

_Duly noted,_ Harry thought to himself. Snape deducted another five points from Slytherin, effectively undoing Harry's work in McGonagall's classroom, and returned to his spiel. Harry was content to continue copying Snape's eloquent speech. Snape was, despite his flaws, rather good at eloquent speeches.

Professor Severus Snape only got worse as the lesson progressed. He all but attacked Neville and made more than one snide remark about Ron and his brothers. Hermione seemed eager to answer the questions Snape tossed to and fro, but the bat-like man flat-out ignored her.

At one point, Snape honed in on Harry once more. "Potter," he said harshly, "say, for instance, that one of your friends has swallowed nightshade extract. There is a dead goat beside them. Now, what, theoretically, could you do to save them?"

Harry shared a quick look with his Shinigami (which befuddled the three students who bothered noticing the glance) and turned his attention back to Snape. "Forgive me, Professor, for answering your question with another question," Harry began, "but may I ask which friend has swallowed this nightshade extract?"

Snape scowled and pointed at Hermione. "_That one."_

Harry hummed. "I see. Now, Hermione – under what circumstances could you, theoretically yet still realistically, swallow nightshade extract?"

Hermione was thrown off by Harry's peculiar inquiry, but managed an answer anyway. Hermione Granger never left a question unanswered. "I suppose it's possible I'd mistake it for some other kind of extract," she said. "Or, maybe it got mixed up with my Mum's things and got cooked into biscuits."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "So, if you've consumed nightshade-laced biscuits of your mother's concoction, it is logical to assume that you would be at home. Where do you typically eat baked goods?"

"The kitchen-"

"Potter, just answer my question," snapped Snape.

"I'm trying, Professor," Harry insisted, his voice just a tad whiny. "However, you have given me insufficient data for me to answer properly. I need it to be realistic so I know how I would _actually_ go about saving Hermione from a poisonous death."

Snape groaned and turned his head away from the class. "Merlin's saggy left -" He cut himself off and shook his head.

"I see," tutted Harry, and he turned again to Hermione. "Excellent. Now, if you were collapsed on the kitchen floor, dying of nightshade extract which you consumed through your mother's baked goods, beside a dead goat, I would..." Harry trailed off, and turned to Snape. "Professor, why am I at Hermione's house? I know we're kind of buddies, but I don't think we're on visiting terms yet. Heck, we're barely on a first-name basis. And why does she have a dead goat? Does she live on a farm?"

"It doesn't matter, Potter!" Snape shouted, red in the face. "Merlin's beard, Potter – a bezoar! Do you know what a bezoar is?"

"Yes," answered Harry tonelessly.

"Do you know what it does?"

"It acts as an antidote for several common poisons."

"And where do you find them?"

"Inside the stomach of a goat. Oh! Is that why Hermione is dying next to a dead goat? That seems oddly convenient, Professor. I mean, I'd buy it if there had been previous indications of a 'guardian angel' or something to leave a dead goat there, but as it is the goat's presence just alludes to lazy storytelling. No offense, I just want to help you improve as an author-"

Snape had heard enough. "Detention, Potter! And _twenty points _from Gryffin- _SLYTHERIN!"_

Ral cackled, mildly amused by Harry's performance. He hoped Harry would turn irritating Snape into a regular gig, because aside from the whole 'magical school' thing and Quirrell's extra name, not much seemed to happen at Hogwarts.

Unlike Ral, Harry didn't wish Hogwarts to be a particularly dangerous place. As the first day came to a close, Harry allowed himself to fall onto his green bed. He'd wasted all his energy on staring at Quirrell and irking Snape. And he hadn't even the time to investigate this library Hermione was so enthusiastic about!

Well, at least his show in Potions had effectively filled any cracks in his new friendship with Ron. After class, the redhead had approached him and made him promise to put mice in Draco Malfoy's bed.

Speaking of, Harry had three small, squirming creatures in his cloak that he wanted Malfoy to meet...

-Q-

Harry happened upon the library completely by accident.

Peeves the Poltergeist had chased him from his original path between the Great Hall and the Slytherin common room, and Harry had become completely and hopelessly lost. He probably would have been chased deeper still into the bowels of Hogwarts, had the Bloody Baron not stumbled upon them. The ghost of Slytherin scolded and cowed Peeves for tormenting his own Snakes.

"I hate that guy," scowled Ral, as he and Harry stomped away from the scene. "I ought to kill him, filthy poltergeist. I didn't even know poltergeists were actually a thing! Honestly, Peevesies isn't horribly good at this 'first impressions' thing..."

Harry ignored the Shinigami's irate babbling, and allowed a smile to spread across his face. Ah, the library. Harry pulled his schedule out of his pocket. His classes were over for today, so he saw nothing wrong with reading until dusk. Ral would certainly be bored, but frankly, Harry did not care.

Madam Pince warned him to be quiet upon his entry, and allowed him to roam. "Just remember: the Restricted Section is called the 'Restricted Section' for a reason," she told Harry. "If it were permitted, it would be called the 'Permitted Section'. Now scat."

Harry was pleased to do so. He knew not where to start, so just started reading titles and skimming through volumes. Of course, in a school for children, he didn't find anything of or relating to the concept of death. But what did he expect?

Then again, these shelves were old. Madam Pince seemed efficient, but he suspected even she overlooked a dark book here and there.

Before he knew it, hours had passed and he had found nothing useful to his research.

"Kid, do you own this book?" Ral asked, reading over another student's shoulder. "It's about dragons." Ral privately thought they looked very cool, and oddly familiar. He took a moment to rake his brains for a memory, and came up with something. Yes, seven or eight decades back, he'd spotted a big red one skulking about. He frowned. How had _that_ slipped his mind?

_Damn, I am lazy,_ he chided himself.

Soon, it was six o'clock and Pince was beginning to usher students out of the library, claiming that she had to tend to the library with students present, and wasn't willing to miss a meal for them. Harry obliged without complaint – the Hogwarts library had proven, regrettably, useless. On his way out, however, his eyes fell over the entrance of the Restricted Section. Maybe-

But he was already out the door.

"Well," he hummed when Pince and the three other inhabitants of the library had scuttled off, "I suppose we have a bit of work to do." He turned back to the entrance and tried the door, but it was locked tight. Harry waved his wand over it and cursed. Pince had some impressive weaves on the lock. It would take Harry hours to unravel them without leaving a footprint.

"That sucks," he sighed, and walked up to a portrait. He knocked, businesslike, on the frame, and the maid sleeping inside started awake.

She looked around blearily before her eyes settled on Harry. "Directions?" she grunted.

Harry smiled sweetly. "Yes, please. The Slytherin common room?"

The portrait groaned and rattled off directions. Harry was lucky to have had Ral at his side – the Shinigami remembered bits Harry didn't catch, and he didn't have to ask the portrait to repeat herself. Which he, personally, thought she appreciated. Apparently, firsties were considered a great nuisance to a great many paintings.

But still, regardless of how Ral and Harry were able to piece together the directions, they still managed to get lost.

Harry didn't realize how lost they were until he wound up in the Trophy Room. "This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. Ral hummed unsympathetically and inspected the plaques and trophies. Harry trudged moodily through the room, glowering at the awards as if they had wronged him somehow. "Ral, I hope you realize this is entirely your fault. 'Oh, she said to go left at the suit of armor'. I _told_ you it was to the right-"

"Harry?"

"Hush, Ral, I need to get this out of my system. I've not eaten in a while," Harry snapped dismissively. "Anyway, I think my sense of direction is vastly superior to yours. Merlin knows why I listened to the likes of _you."_

"Kid. Look at this."

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes. "I don't have to take orders from you, Shinigami. Can't you see that I am in a _rage_ right now? I haven't eaten since – when? - breakfast? - and I just spend three hours leafing through books about freckle-removing charms. Freckle-removing charms, Ral! Wizards look into new ways to get rid of facial blemishes, yet can't be arsed to actually figure out how their magic-"

Ral lost his patience. "_Human!"_ he roared, skeletal wings flaring and eyes flashing dangerously. He pointed to a certain plaque. "Tom Riddle! I've found him."

Harry like all his previous issues with the world had simply melted away. He took a moment to reflect upon the sweet convenience of this discovery before sprinting over and looking at the indicated reward. "Services to the school," he murmured, eyes squinting thoughtfully. He turned his gaze to Ral, eyes shining with malice. "This is good, Shinigami. This is very good."

-Q-

_Look at him, sitting up there. He's playing, I can tell. _Harry gnashed his flapjacks to a syrupy pulp in his mouth, outwardly glaring at the purple turban at the teacher's table. _But what is that stuttering fool up to...?_

"Uh, Potter...?" began Pansy Parkinson, frowning at bit at the wizard-savior. "Is there something wrong with Quirrell?"

Harry's response was completely automatic, for at that moment, his brain-mouth filter was faulty and clogged with pancakes. "Oh, dear, you have no clue." He swallowed. "I just really, really, with all of my heart _despise _him." Of course, it was more that Harry didn't trust Quirrell, rather than disliked him. Then again, even if Quirrell wasn't harboring a student from fifty years ago somewhere on his person, he was still a shoddy teacher. And the _stuttering –_ ugh!

"P-P-Potter," came a mousy voice.

Harry sighed inwardly and turned around. A petite Hufflepuffe girl, probably a second year, stood behind him. She extended a small scroll, sealed shut with a violet ribbon, to Harry. "The, uh, the headmaster w-wanted me t-t-to give this to y-you..."

Harry took the message and thanked her, and casually unrolled and read it.

_Mr. Potter,_

_I should very much like to make your acquaintance. We can meet in my office, share a pot of tea, chat, all that. Just pop in any time after your classes. Ask Professor Snape how to get there – obviously, he will know, as he has worked here for a decade now._

_Albus Dumbledore_

Pansy, who had been reading over Harry's shoulder, snorted. "Suck-up," she sniffed. "He only wants to talk to you because you killed You-Know-Who."

Harry shrugged. "I don't care why he wants to talk to me," he said.

DADA that day was as much a chore as it had been the previous two days, but even worse now. Harry wanted to flip his desk over and shake Quirrell around a bit, demand to know about the extra name. Alas, though such a thing could not be done. He was forced to chew on his thumb whilst the professor made an absolute fool of himself, knowing that the man must have a dark, terrible secret...

Much to Ral's disappointment, Harry was too distracted to irritate Snape today, and even wound up blowing up his cauldron. Snape delighted in the opportunity to humiliate Harry, yet was frustrated when it became apparent that Harry didn't give a hoot.

Harry's classes came to a close, and he hunted down the bat-like professor. "Sir," he said, to catch the man's attention.

"What?" demanded Snape, flatly. Harry brandished his note at him.

"Headmaster's office. Directions. Pretty please?"

Snape scowled, and explained the location to him. As Harry scuttled off, Snape mumbled to himself, "I hope he's being expelled." Though, even he knew that was impossible. Dumbledore? Expel Harry Potter? Not even in a fool's world.

-Q-

"Ah, Harry, my boy," smiled Albus Dumbledore. He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. "Please, sit. It seems you haven't wasted much time getting here. I am pleased."

Harry smiled and sat. "I admit, it took me a while to find the place," he said. He blanched a bit. "I am _not_ good with directions. Or guessing passwords, so it's lucky the portraits took pity on me."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Oh, Harry, I am sorry. I seem to have neglected to mention the password," he said.

Harry shook his head. "It's no matter now." Dumbledore smiled a twinkly-eyed smile. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, sorted into Slytherin. He carefully studied the boy's face for hidden signs of malice or sadness – and came up with nothing. For now.

"Tell me, my boy," Dumbledore began, as he poured himself and Harry a cup of fruity tea, "how do you feel about your House? I notice that most of your friends are in Gryffindor."

Harry shrugged. "I like my House well enough," he said. "It's only been three days, though, so I'm hardly ready to judge it now."

Dumbledore nodded. Harry seemed quite mature for an eleven-year-old. He casually inquired about Harry's classes. He wanted to ask about his friends, his ability to love, and moral standpoint, but one couldn't just jump on into those things. Harry could have turned out vastly darker than he anticipated, and react poorly to Dumbledore prying into his private life so.

"They're nice," Harry allowed. "Quirrell and Snape aren't spectacular, but all my other teachers are lovely."

Snape. It would make sense for Harry to dislike him, for Snape had made it his life's ambition to irk Harry whilst still repaying his life debt. Quirrell... Quirrell appeared to be a stuttering fool, and probably made Defense Against the Dark Arts look like a joke. Phew. Nothing malicious there. "My boy, it would ease my old mind to know how you are getting along, as far as friendships go," Dumbledore said, spooning several scoops of sugar into his tea. He offered the sugar spoon to Harry, which the boy declined.

"I have friends," he said simply. "We're not horribly close yet, though."

"I imagine sustaining a friendship would be difficult, what with differing Houses," Dumbledore commented mildly. Here it was. Moment of truth.

Harry shrugged and sipped his tea, lazily inspecting the paintings of past headmasters. "Oh, well, we have classes together," Harry explained vaguely. "Personally, I don't think my House is much of a problem for them. After all, in Slytherin, I can irritate my Housemates on Ron's behalf."

Dumbledore smiled, relieved. Friendship wasn't an issue. He was glad that a decade with the Dursleys hadn't destroyed Harry's ability to love and be loved. "Lemon drop?" he offered.

Harry grinned. "Please."

Dumbledore began detailing his love of Muggle sweets, a conversation Harry – surprisingly – took excellent part in. After sweets, they drifted to the curriculum. Harry, Dumbledore reflected, was quite knowledgeable of Transfiguration. As it had been his own specialty once, the headmaster was flattered.

"My goodness!" Dumbledore said suddenly, as his twinkly eyes fell over the clock. "I've kept you for the better part of two hours, my boy. Dear me, perhaps it is time I send you off."

Harry sighed. "Very well, Headmaster," he said. He righted his cloak and thanked Dumbledore for the tea and lemon drops. Harry was half way through the door, and paused. "Oh, one last thing, Professor-?"

Dumbledore grinned wide, lovingly stroking Fawkes' – who had become the object of a lovely conversation half an hour ago – beak. "Yes? Anything, Harry."

"Do you know who Tom Riddle is?"

The question felt like a punch in the gut. An icy, cruel jab directly in the abdomen. It was a miracle that Dumbledore maintained a straight face. "Tom Riddle, you say?" he murmured thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat and running his fingers through his majestic beard. "Tom Riddle..."

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "I saw his name when I wound up in the Trophy Room. The plaque said he was awarded for services to the school, see, and I was just curious what he did. It didn't say."

A low, almost resigned sigh was emitted by the old wizard. "Oh, Harry. I wish I didn't have to tell you now, but I suppose you've the right to know," said Dumbledore grudgingly. He folded his hands on the desk. "Tom Riddle apprehended a dire threat to the school fifty years ago. He was intelligent, charming, and talented. Unfortunately..."

"Yes?" Harry prompted sharply. Dumbledore saw something flash in his eyes, and he was tempted to prod the boy's mind. _No, no,_ he scolded himself. _There is no need for that._

"Unfortunately, Riddle went rotten. Or, rather, he was rotten from the start. To illustrate how much I mean this, I believe I should inform you that Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort," explained the old man.

Harry nodded. "This is good to know," he said. His tone was vague, and somehow he managed to seem idle and thoughtful at the same time. Suddenly, he was beaming at the headmaster. "Thank you for that information, Professor Dumbledore. I feel like I've gotten a bit of closure out of this meeting. Good day."

Harry departed before Dumbledore could say anything more.

The old man gave a shaky breath and stroked Fawkes' head. His piercing-blue eyes looked forlorn, almost. "I do hope I haven't mucked anything up," he told his phoenix. The bird trilled loudly at him, as if in agreement, and he chuckled.

-Q-

That Lord Voldemort was stuck somewhere on Quirrell's person was interesting news indeed. Unfortunately, Harry wasn't exactly prepared to butt heads with the Dark Lord. He supposed it was possible to kill Quirrell and go from there, but he gained nothing from that. Besides, killing Quirrell may not even do anything about Voldemort. Alternatively, he could just kill Voldemort with himself, but Harry didn't know what the Dark Lord's face looked like, which rendered the Death Note useless.

Harry and Quirrell-Riddle were at something of a standoff. Was it frustrating? Yes. Was it humiliating? Yes. Somehow. In any case, it made Defense an extremely stressful class. Harry kept expecting Quirrell to snap and start firing Unforgivable Curses left and right.

He never did, though.

In fact, all Quirrell did for nearly two months was stutter and teach inadequately. Until Halloween.

Harry had been trying to drown out the sound of Pansy and Draco's heated debate – about the best Lockhart misadventure, he supposed – which Ral loudly commented on. The babble of the Great Hall was headache-educing as it was, even more so with the added sound of a indignant Shinigami. The Halloween Feast was delicious, but difficult to enjoy with the added audio stimuli.

A mighty hush fell over the students, though, when the doors burst in an Harry spotted a purple turban bobbing down the aisle, accompanied by panicked shouts of, "Troll! Troll in the dungeon! Thought you ought to know." The man promptly fainted and equally frantic screaming from each individual student filled the Hall.

Harry grimaced and shot a look to Ral. They were both thinking the same thing, that Quirrell was responsible for the release of the troll.

Dumbledore rose and ordered all to remain quiet. Before Harry knew it, Prefects were rounding up students. Harry pushed his way around a few sixth years an approached the Slytherin Prefect, tugging her sleeve and trying to look as much like a first-year as possible. It wasn't hard – Harry was used to making the 'meek' face and was slight besides. "Uh, hey," he said, "Quirrell said the troll was in the dungeons, right?"

Realization dawned on her face. "Oh, Merlin. Our common room is in the dungeons," she murmured. She shouted to the other Prefect. "Keep an eye on the short ones, okay? I'm going to go ask Professor Snape about this." She nodded stiffly to Harry and departed.

Now unguarded, Harry slipped away from his fellow Snakes and whipped out his wand. He fixed his tie to Hufflepuff colors and quickly altered his appearance a bit – turning his hair brown and his eyes blue, along with hiding the scar. No one batted an eye as he slipped through the Badgers to approach the Gryffindors.

He had the inkling of a plan, but he doubted it would work if he didn't have a boneheaded Gryffindor to have 'persuaded' him to leave his Housemates.

"Ron," he muttered, reaching over and tugging his friend's sleeve.

Ron looked over, not immediately recognizing Harry. "What d'you want?" he asked, not sounding particularly interested.

"Ron, it's me. Come on – I need your help with something." Ron's mouth fell open slightly as he recognized Harry's voice and facial features. Harry shot a wary glance Percy's way, making sure he wasn't paying attention, and grabbed Ron by the front of his robes.

The students were beginning to file out, so it was easy for a nameless Hufflepuff and a Weasley to blend into the crowd.

Ral followed the duo as they slipped into a vacant corridor. He had to wonder what Harry had in mind.

Harry removed his disguise and fixed his tie when he was sure he and Ron were alone in the corridor. "So, Ron," he began, "fancy a trip to the dungeons?"

Ron blanched. "Why would you want to-?" He cut himself off, eyes focused behind Harry's head.

Uneasiness settled in Harry's torso like a cold knot. The sound of heavy footsteps filled his ears, shook the frames on the wall and the suits of armor. Harry slowly turned, and was greeted by the sight of a twelve-foot, humanoid beast stomping through the halls. It passed slowly, grunting, failing to notice the two meaty morsels just a few long paces away.

The two boys stood, frozen, as it lurched passed. After it had gone, Harry waited until its stench had lifted before speaking. "Okay, forget the dungeons. We're following the troll."

"_Following the troll?"_ Ron and Ral parroted in unison. Ron with gaping terror, and Ral with ecstatic amusement.

"Finally, something is happening," Ral cheered, his wings unfurling with excitement.

"We'll be killed!" insisted Ron, his tone the exact opposite of the Shinigami.

Harry shrugged. "Don't worry, Ron. All you have to do is stick by me and look like a Gryffindor," he explained reassuringly. "Now, come on. Follow that troll-stink!"

Harry skipped down the corridors, wand drawn, ginger and Shinigami following in his wake. Tracking the troll wasn't difficult – it left a trail of horrid stench and toppled suits of armor. Ron explained several times on the way exactly why this was a wretched idea, but Harry didn't hear it. Mostly because Ral was cackling so loudly.

-Q-

The troll led them to the girls' lavatory. "Merlin," Ron breathed. "Harry, Hermione wasn't with us in the Great Hall – Malfoy was mocking her and she's been in the girls' bathroom all evening!"

Harry elbowed him in the ribs, scoring a bark of bitter laughter from Ral. "Harry, the troll is going to kill her," the ginger insisted. His voice was high and panicked. Harry knew from Ron's passionate monologues in Potions that he had no room in his heart for Hermione, but that didn't mean he was the kind of person to stand by and let her be killed by a troll.

Harry mentally cursed. His original plan was to follow the troll and observe it, see if Quirrell had any subliminal intentions that involved it, but apparently he had to kill it now.

"Let's go be thoughtless Gryffindors," Harry decided.

"You're a Slytherin," reminded Ron.

Harry shrugged as he made his way to the lavatory, wand readied. "Barely."

They charged in just in time to hear Hermione scream. The troll roared a throaty roar, for the shrill sound irritated him. "Hermione!" called Ron. The ginger wizard shot a stunning spell at the troll, but all it did was grunt and snarl.

The troll screamed spittle at them and swung its club around. The boys yelped and ducked as its club swung over their heads, effectively destroying a row of stalls and five sinks. Harry raked his brains for a good spell that Ron and Hermione could believe him knowing. As the troll took two steps towards him, Harry realized that there was no time for any such thing.

He shrugged, a resigned 'oh well' implied. Ron was crying and throwing bits of wood at it, now darting around the bathroom as it approached Harry. Hermione was crouched under the sink, yelling spells at him. Harry was deaf to them. He raised his slender, ivory wand, and made a large sweeping motion, leaning into the wand movement just a bit. "_O__brátene!"_ The old Slovakian incantation rolled off his tongue like he spoke the word every day.

Hermione shrieked and Ron promptly wet himself as intestines erupted from the troll's naval at something close to the speed of a train. The troll howled as it lost its life and control of its bowels. Hermione and Ron clutched each other, covering their noses and sobbing. Harry himself gagged a bit at the smell.

But he had bigger things on his head – the troll seemed to be little more than a distraction. Honestly, Harry was ashamed it had not occurred to him sooner. Still, he _had_ wanted to try that spell out.

"Okay," Harry began, casting a spell to temporarily block out the troll's smell, "so it went like this: Ron realized back in the Great Hall that Hermione wasn't aware of the troll's presence, and slipped away to warn her. With your combined efforts, you successfully managed a summoning charm on it's innards, but though the result was effective, it was still... revolting, I suppose." He clapped his hands, wand away now. "And _I_ was never here. Clear?"

Ron and Hermione nodded dumbly. Harry smiled and blew them a kiss before slipping out of the lavatory. He cast a spell to clean his robes, then pointed his wand out and fixed the image of Quirrell's pale face in his mind. "_Point Me,"_ he spoke, and the charm directed him to the third floor. Harry vaguely recalled something Dumbledore said at the opening feast about a forbidden corridor.

Harry followed the spell, dodging around ghosts and the odd teacher that patrolled the halls. "Over there," Ral pointed out. Harry just managed to catch the swish of Quirrell's violet cloak as the man ducked into another corridor.

He tailed him.

Harry crept into the corridor, and, quietly as he could, tracked the professor. Quirrell turned a corner, and Harry was about to follow him when the teacher's footsteps ended abruptly, and voices filled the corridor. Harry froze and pressed his body against the wall, listening intently.

"I don't know exactly what you plan to do-" It was Snape. Ral and Harry grinned.

"D-d-do, Severus?" squeaked Quirrell. "Why, y-you make it s-s-sound like I'm up p-p-p-plotting..."

"You can play dumb, Quirinus. Go ahead. You may have fooled Dumbledore, but you have _not_ fooled me." Snape sounded lethal. "I know that you are... up to something. Tread lightly, or I might feel inclined to do something about it. I'm watching your, Quirrell."

Harry heard the rustle of cloaks and a dull thud, and got the idea that Snape had pushed Quirrell down. He heard Quirrell breathe shakily, and Snape storm off.

_Interesting, _Harry thought, slipping away, lest the stuttering fraud find him. _It seems that Snape isn't quite as petty as I assumed. _A plan was festering in Harry's mind. Snape may prove to be a useful asset in his quest to figure this Voldemort-Quirrell nonsense out.

When Harry returned to the Slytherin common room, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy awaited him, glaring daggers.

"Where in Merlin's beard did you go?" demanded Pansy sharply.

Harry rolled his eyes. "What's it to you?"

"The Prefects made us stay here and wait to see if you'd come back," Draco snarled. "We're tired. So what is it, Potter, that we've had to wait for?"

Harry smiled a would-be pleasant smile. "You had to stay up for the gruesome demise of a troll. Off you pop then, if your lack of rest has the widdle baby so gwochy," Harry cooed.

-Q-

Pansy and Draco hadn't believed him, of course. But by breakfast the next morning, word had spread of Harry's battle. Apparently, Ron proved incapable of keeping his mouth shut, and Hermione incapable of telling a convincing lie. In any case, Harry's Housemates now regarded him with utmost respect. Harry even dared say there was some fear in their eyes.

Which wasn't good. Harry preferred being a little more discreet.

The teachers, however, denied passionately that Harry could ever have done such a thing. McGonagall and the others steered clear of the subject, but Snape was not so keen on holding in tongue.

"Potter? Kill a troll?" scoffed the bat-like man when Draco pestered him about it during Potions. "Why doesn't he grow an extra head and raise the dead with a used nappy while he's at it? Really, Mr. Malfoy, I would expect such ignorance from Gryffindors – but from you? From _any_ of you?" He regarded the Slytherins distastefully. "How disappointing."

"So what did happen? McGonagall said that there was troll guts all over the girls' lavatory," Pansy pressed. She pointed at Hermione. "Granger was there, and she said that Potter killed the troll with some weird spell."

Snape scowled. "Silence, Ms. Parkinson." He did not elaborate on the subject any further.

Class ended and the Gryffindors and Slytherins began filing out. "Go ahead," Harry told Ron. "I'll see you at supper." Ron shrugged and left.

Harry waited until all the other students were out, before closing the door and making no secret about locking it.

"Potter, what the Devil are you doing?" demanded Snape, standing behind his desk. "Unlock that door and leave – immediately!"

"Professor Snape, I have information in regards to Quirrell's suspicious activities. I believe you may find it interesting," Harry began, ignoring Snape's orders and speaking in a very businesslike tone.

Snape stilled. "What is this? Cease this foolishness! Ten points from Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes, and made a 'can you believe?' face at Ral. To Snape, Harry looked completely bonkers. Ral was intrigued. He doubted Harry would be so careless as to jeopardize Ral's existence with such a blatant look. "Professor, listen to reason. Listen to _me,"_ Harry said, waving his hands just a little bit as he spoke. "I have a _business proposition. _I know you're not an idiot, and though I do look cute and harmless, I can assure that I am not an 'harmless' at all. You think Quirrell's up to something. I think Quirrell's up to something. The difference is that I have some... juicy knowledge that could help us both. _If_ you are willing to work with me, that is."

Snape regarded his student warily. Something was definitely wrong. Had Harry been playing him all year? Snape's lips were pulled into a snarl. "What are you talking about?"

"I have a friend," began Harry, "who has noticed something peculiar about Quirrell. Forgive me for brushing over the details, but one thing led to another, and I figured out that Quirinus Quirrell has Lord Voldemort hidden somewhere on his person."

Snape would have gone slack-jawed, had Harry's words not been so ridiculous. Was this a joke? Did Potter really think him to be so... so _gullible? _Then again, it would explain a few things...

"I am simply proposing that we work together to apprehend Quirrell and separate Lord Voldemort from him. From what I can tell, you are the least ignorant of the teachers, so I assume you will be a reliable asset. And I can help you – after all, you _do _want Quirrell gone, don't you?" Harry explained.

Snape's sneer was even more sneerish than his usual sneers. "Is this a joke?"

"I am completely serious," Harry insisted, in a completely serious tone.

For some reason, which Snape couldn't begin to fathom, he believed Harry. Just a little. "I see," Snape murmured. "How can we trust each other?"

Harry smiled, as if he had been waiting for Snape to ask that exact question. "A reasonable concern, Professor," he chimed. "I haven't done much to earn your trust, and there really is no way for me to know if you plan on blabbing to anyone. Dumbledore specifically. However, I believe that if our lives are on the line, we can figure something out."

Realization dawned on Snape. "An Unbreakable Vow?"

Harry's grin did not lack eeriness at all. "An Unbreakable Vow."

"There isn't anyone to act as a Bonder."

"That's where you're wrong." Harry pulled something out of his pocket: A small scrap of paper. "Just put your finger on it." Snape, warily, did as he was told.

Nothing happened for a moment. Snape got the idea that Harry was just playing with him, and was about to endeavor to make the boy's life a Hell on earth when chilling laughter filled his ears. Snape froze, and his eyes widened, falling beside Harry and following the monster's form up to its face. It grinned.

"Oh," he managed.

The creature cackled. "'Oh' is right." Ral thought this was very clever.

"Professor, meet Ral," introduced Harry. "He is a _good_ friend of mine, and will be conducting our Vow." Harry pocketed the paper. The motion did not go unnoticed by Snape, and he had to wonder what that paper was. Furthermore, he had to wonder what _Ral_ was. He was too disturbed to ask, though.

"Am I, now?" grunted Ral.

"Are you confused by the part about being by friend, or conducting an Unbreakable Vow?" Harry wondered.

"Both, I suppose."

"I see. But I digress. Professor, are you ready to put your life on this?" continued the boy. Snape gazed upon the child. Up until now, he had been convinced that the boy was just an insufferable prick like his father – no regard for rules, no small amount of sass, a very small amount of respect... But now, with the horrid beast at his side, with this knowledge of Lord Voldemort, he wasn't so sure. Was a person this deceiving really trustworthy?

Then Snape thought of Quirrell, and the Philosopher's Stone. If Voldemort really was involved, then Snape had to do something about it.

He swallowed his pride and took Harry's extended hand. Ral had Harry's wand. It looked extremely out of place in that demon's clawed hand. Harry couldn't help but grin upon hearing Ral murmur the incantation. When he had formulated this plan, he had wondered if a Shinigami could even use magic. He eventually came to the conclusion that it didn't matter – a simple charm on his right palm would appear to Snape as the effects of the Unbreakable Vow. In reality, it just added a new stream of fire every time a term was stated and agreed to.

If Ral could use magic, good. If not, it didn't matter. Snape would be fooled either way.

"Do you swear on your life that you shall cooperate with one another in your endeavors to separate Voldemort from Quirrell?" Ral began.

Snape seemed to try very hard to make his mouth move. "Yes."

Harry spoke with casual ease. "Uh-huh. One hundred percent."

"Do you swear on your life not to betray one another in your endeavors to separate Voldemort from Quirrell?"

"Yes."

"I suppose I do, don't I?"

"Do you swear on your life to share necessary information and keep your proceedings a complete secret, even after the matter is resolved?"

"... Yes."

"Yep, that I do."

It probably wasn't a bona fide Vow, but the fact remained that Harry and Snape had a deal. And the deal was sealed. As was their fate.

-Q-


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own jack squat. Except Ral – Ral is mine.

*Chapter title is a line from 'Trouble is a Friend' by Lenka.

**AN/ **I would just like to say right now that I HATE the pacing of this one. Also, it's short. So there's that.

**Chapter Four**

**Trouble is a Friend of Mine**

-Q-

"Have you heard of the Philosopher's Stone?" Snape inquired.

Harry shrugged. "Of course. Even Muggles are fixated on it, and they're not even sure if it exists. It's only the key to infinite life and boundless gold, in the hands of an Alchemist dexterous enough," the boy explained. Harry lounged in a spare chair, his feet propped up on Snape's desk. It was their first 'detention' in which they were to conduct their meetings. To any passerby, it would seem Harry was isolated in Snape's classroom, scrubbing cauldrons for punishment.

A low hum was emitted by the door, and Snape's dark eyes snapped in the direction of the Shinigami. "I think that even I've heard of it," said Ral.

"I told you to keep an eye on anyone daft enough to be roaming the halls," Harry said. His tone, to the untrained ear, was slightly miffed but casual. But to Snape, he detected a hint of a lethal undertone.

Ral sniffed and waved away Harry's words. "Yeah, yeah, leave me out of it." He slipped through the stone wall, muttering bitterly about being stuck with 'guard duty'.

Harry rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Snape. "So, this what about this Philosopher's Stone?" he asked.

"An Alchemist by the name of Nicolas Flamel has entrusted the headmaster with his own Stone," Snape explained. "If Voldemort truly is on Quirrell's person as you say, then obtaining it could mean the return of the Dark Lord."

"So we would have to do something about that," Harry nodded.

"Indeed," confirmed Snape, his manner testy. "I would suggest stalking Quirrell, but-"

"_But_ you have already made a spectacular show of being onto him," Harry interjected, his eyes flashing. "Not your brightest moment, though I do have means to work around this. When do you think it would be safest to eradicate this threat?"

The Head of Slytherin House opened his mouth to demand how Harry knew he'd confronted Quirrell, but decided against it. It wasn't too far-fetched to assume the boy had been eavesdropping. "Christmas break," Snape suggested, electing instead to answer the boy's question. "Most students will be absent, and the teachers wont be. I suppose it would be possible to lure him there and apprehend him somehow."

"Where is 'there', exactly, _mon ami?"_ inquired Harry casually.

Snape was privately pleased that Harry had not inferred the location on his own. "The forbidden corridor on the third floor," explained the bat-like man. "The Heads of House – along Quirrell himself and Dumbledore – collaborated to create a series of trials to defend the Stone."

The boy drummed his fingers against the desk in thought. Snape waited patiently for Harry to say something, and after five minutes, the Boy-Who-Lived finally sat up and spoke: "I have a plan." It was all he said, before clapping his hands, standing, and making his way to the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded Snape sharply.

Harry froze, his hand hovering over the knob. "Uh... back to the common room, sir. I have a plan. Important stuff, anti-Lord Voldemort stuff. You know... our stuff," Harry said.

Snape grinned wickedly. "No, Potter – you've only been here for a few minutes. You have a detention to tend to." With a short swish of his wand, Harry was spun around and directed to the several dozens of filthy cauldrons in the corner.

Harry regarded him disbelievingly. "Keeping up appearances," Snape explained, smug. Harry scowled, and got to work.

-Q-

Not many students chose to stay at Hogwarts over break. In fact, Harry was the only Slytherin who did. No one would question this: Harry Potter had no family. Hogwarts was his home. In fact, it would be stranger if he did choose to go back to the Dursleys.

He, Ron, and Neville said goodbye to Hermione, who had been quite friendly toward him since Halloween. Now that he was alone, he could use his Death Note without fear of being caught. In the common room, he flipped his trunk open and dug through it, pushing aside countless books, dozens of spare quills, several pairs of robes, and an old, half-eaten sandwich before finally located his most prized possession.

Harry traced the Death Note's spine and cover, admiring how truly harmless it looked. So deceiving. He sat on his green bed and flipped it open, reflecting upon his initial use of it as a journal, and the few killings that followed. Not counting the extra pages used for his bitter thoughts about his family, he'd barely used half a page.

_Well, then perhaps I should remedy that. After all, it is a shame not to use it, _Harry grinned. He whipped out a quill and began writing in sure, tidy letters.

Deed done, he snapped his Death Note shut and returned it to its spot in the bottom of his trunk. "I feel like this might be an anticlimax," Harry commented as he locked up his trunk.

Ral shrugged. "Disappointment is your specialty," the Shinigami said. He felt sour. Ral had been hoping for something a wee bit more dramatic.

-Q-

Harry woke on Christmas morning to Ral prodding him in the face. "Wake up, you lard," growled the Death God. "It's almost noon. Aren't little kids supposed to get up early on Christmas?"

Harry moaned as he rolled out of bed, ignoring the 'little kid' jab. "Christmas is a time of rest," he said, wrapped in his blanket on the floor. He was a blanket-child burrito.

"You've been resting since break started."

With a moan, Harry made his way to the foot of his bed, crawling on the floor like a caterpillar. He was surprised to see a small stack of parcels before his bed. "What an interesting development," he commented, smiling brightly. Ral scoffed at the words 'interesting development'. Harry freed his arms and grabbed the first present he could get his hands on. He'd never had had a real Christmas before. Oh, what a time to be alive.

It was a gift from Ron. Harry regarded it curiously, unwrapping it and finding it was a book. That wasn't very Ron-li- _ah!_ A book about Quidditch tactics. That made more sense. Hermione sent him a copy of _Hogwarts, A History, _which Harry appreciated even though he already had a copy. His own was falling apart. Neville had gifted him with a glass paperweight shaped as a flower.

One of the more peculiar presents was the one from Pansy Parkinson. It was a small doll, about five inches in height, made to look like Harry. Harry stared at it for a moment, aghast, wondering if Pansy was into voodoo. He read the attached note, a short line of her flowery handwriting that read: _Pretty cool how you killed a troll, Potter. -PP_

Harry thoughtlessly tucked the doll into his trunk and turned to the last parcel – an unmarked one. He pulled the note off, frowning a bit as he read:

_Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you._

_Use it well._

It was unsigned. Ral watched curiously as Harry revealed the gift. At first, the silky material meant nothing to him. But then Harry held it up to his body, wrapped it around his shoulders, and disappeared. Something seemed to snap in the Shinigami's mind, and the effect of it nearly sent him sprawling.

"_And you?"_ It was his own voice.

"_A patch of your cloak is all I ask. I simply wish to be unseen."_

The voices entered and left his head at the speed of a hijacked train. He stared openly at the cloak now. Harry stared back, confused. "Ral?" he prompted, and the Shinigami quickly righted himself.

"I don't have to tell you anything," snapped Ral.

Harry looked put off, but knew there was no real way for him to persuade Ral to confide in him. Honestly, it seemed rather silly to expect him to. After all, he was only following Harry because of the Death Note. "This is an interesting item," Harry stated, swishing it around and smiling when the material made no sound. "I should like to take it for a spin, so to speak."

Harry pulled it over his head, and Ral stared blankly at the place where he had been. His name had disappeared with his body. Harry's voice floated across the room: "Fancy a trip to the library, Ral?"

Ral's eyes narrowed. "Yeah."

"Then come on." Ral jumped, for Harry's voice came to him from the door, rather than the spot by the bed where the boy had last been.

-Q-

There was no point in using the Invisibility Cloak now – it was high noon. Harry forced himself to slog through two painstaking meals in Quirrell's presence before night finally fell and he could roam about with his 'new toy'.

At two in the morning, he rolled out of bed and pulled a pair of slippers on. Shoes would make too much noise against the stone floors of Hogwarts. Harry stuffed his Death Note down the front of his pajama pants – just in case – along with a spare pen, and readied his wand. With the cloak tossed over his head, he made his way out of the common room. Ral, unable to spy his name or his body, would just have to trust his own sense of direction to get to the library.

Madam Pince's weaves on the lock weren't necessarily glamorous, but they were a head-scratcher. Harry was lucky to untangle them long enough to slip into the library without a footprint.

In sharp contrast to library door, the door the Restricted Section was done away with with a mere _Alohamora _and a silencing charm on the hinges. Ral saw it creek open and knew Harry must have gotten in. He, being a technical god and all, simply slipped through the wall. Just in time to see Harry remove his cloak, too. "That went off without a hitch," Harry commented with a smile.

He neatly folded his Invisibility Cloak and began walking down the aisles of the Restricted Section. Ral followed, his eyes reading the peculiar titles that Harry didn't quite catch.

"This is actually rather disappointing," murmured Harry. He had already spotted two of these volumes around Knockturn Alley. They weren't even of the darker, more useful variety. _Curse this school and its light-orientated curriculum,_ Harry thought bitterly, mentally shaking a fist.

But he didn't allow himself to be demotivated too much. With a little less gusto then he was fully capable of, Harry managed to sniff out a relatively interesting book with a snippet on 'Horcruxes'. He hummed in thought and ripped the page out. He put it in his pocket, making a mental note to bring this up to Snape later.

Harry heaved a sigh and replaced the book. "Is there really nothing – nothing at all – that could possibly relate to the Death Note?" he wondered aloud.

"Considering most owners of the Death Note have either gone completely insane or died before they could share their findings, I'd say that there is nothing on it anywhere. At all," Ral stated tonelessly. With a thoughtful hum, he added, "Unless..."

That one word caught Harry's attention like nothing else had to date. "Yes?" the boy prompted sharply.

"I happen to know there is one other possible Death Note-owner on earth right now. Maybe, if he or she hasn't gotten rid of it yet," Ral told. He thought back to Ryuk, how that swine had stolen his Death Note and just tossed it into the human world with his own. Jerk. Still, the possibility was intriguing.

Harry regarded the Shinigami disbelievingly. "And you just happened to have forgotten to mention this until now?" he demanded. "Damn it, Ral, I could have found this owner and gotten into contact with them. We could have conducted research together! But _no, _you have to be a lazy, noncommittal buttclown and let me flail around alone, like a fish out of water..."

Ral growled and flexed his wings menacingly. "Watch your mouth, human," he hissed. "I happen to have genuinely forgotten. Besides, if history has any merit at all, this – probably nonexistent – other owner would have been too scared of the Death Note to be of any use. I'm just saying there's a chance."

The human looked as if he was about to retort, but held his tongue. _Don't get too big for your britches, _Harry reminded himself. _He _is_ going to be the death of me, after all._

"In any case, I suppose I should thank you for that tidbit. It will make for good brain-gum," Harry murmured, turning away and throwing a filthy look at the unhelpful books.

"Brain-gum?" parroted Ral skeptically.

"I'll have to chew on it for a bit," offered Harry as an explanation. "Sometimes these things just come to me. It's pretty neat."

Coming to the conclusion that the Hogwarts library was of no further use to him, Harry made sure there was no trace of his being there, and slipped out of the Restricted Section. He replaced Pince's weaves on the door and began making his way back to the common room. Jeez, what a letdown. He'd hoped that the Restricted Section would have something of use to him. _That's what I get for hoping, _Harry thought glumly. _Henceforth, I shall rely solely on facts and skill._

Maybe a little bit of chance, too, if there really was another Death Note on earth.

Harry suddenly stopped, feeling cold in his gut. His eyes were trained, unwavering, before him. When did that suit of armor move there? "Merlin," he growled quietly. Being so caught up in idle musing, he'd managed to get lost. In Hogwarts. After curfew. Well, no point in faltering now. He was invisible and could crawl as quietly as a mouse – he'd find his way back to a familiar part of the castle.

Easier said than done. Half an hour later, he was still caught in a confusing mishmash of corridors. He passed by the library twice, both times thinking he could find his way back again, but hot damn – Hogwarts was different at night.

Harry spotted a door he hadn't been through yet, the third time he passed the library. He felt hope – a recently rejected emotion – swell in his chest, but was disappointed to find it was just an unused classroom. He was about to just leave and resort to a _Point Me_ charm when something caught he eye.

He walked into the vacant classroom and removed his cloak, eyeing the tall mirror that stood in the center. There was a line of spindly letters across the top, which Harry's keen mind quickly figured to read backwards. _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. _I show not your face, but your heart's desire.

"Interesting," he purred, inspecting his reflection. His true desire? Were they just words, or was it really a magic mirror? Harry frowned at the mirror. All he saw was himself, as he was, with Ral standing over his shoulder. He craned his neck to speak to the Shinigami. "About time you show-" He cut himself off.

Ral wasn't there.

-Q-

In far corner of the classroom, turned invisible by a little charm, Dumbledore was musing. To him, it looked like Harry was about to speak to whomever he'd seen in the mirror with him. The old man smiled. A friend? A friend so good that he saw him or her in the Mirror of Erised? It warmed his heart, and comforted his mind. Despite his meeting with Harry, he still felt that there was something just a wee bit _off_ about the boy.

But if he saw a friend, he could love, and did love. It was all Dumbledore could ever hope for.

He watched Harry as the boy cast a charm – _Point Me. _Mrs. Norris popped into the classroom, and Harry spoke a horrid curse that sounded doubly-awful coming from a child. Harry pulled a pen and thin black notebook out of his pants – why on earth was he keeping them in his pants? - and jotted something down. Dumbledore noted the thoughtful expression.

He put his things back in his pants, and Dumbledore assumed it wasn't important. More curious was his wand. Long, slender, and ivory. That was _not_ the brother wand of Voldemort's.

_Quit being paranoid, _Dumbledore scolded himself. _So he dropped by a wandmaker other than Ollivander. I'll get the proper wand to him somehow._

Harry donned his cloak and departed.

-Q-

Snape jumped a bit when Harry slammed his palm down on his desk. Oh, so it was a meeting today, rather than normal detention.

"Horcruxes," Harry said simply. He'd pulled a chair up to Snape's desk.

"What about them?" inquired the Potions Master, scowling. How did this runt know about Horcruxes? _Better not to ask._

"What are they, really? I stumbled upon this -" He tossed a scrap of paper onto the desk, "- whilst reading last night, and in piqued my interest. Smells like Voldemort, if you ask me, but I figured I'd ask someone more likely to know," Harry said. "Which brings us here, so: Horcruxes?"

Snape picked up the scrap of paper and read through it briefly. He sighed. "There's no use lying to you, or withholding this information," Snape conceded. With a sigh, he continued, "A Horcrux is a highly advanced form of dark magic. It acts as a container for a bit of its owners' soul."

"Wow, that's almost _exactly _what that paper said," Ral commented loudly. He was across the room, inspecting the jars and containers of odd ingredients. Frankly, Snape was surprised that the queer creature was even paying attention to them.

He wasn't deterred. "In relation to Voldemort, Dumbledore firmly believes that the Dark Lord used a Horcrux to remain alive. Well, not really _alive, _but not dead," explained Snape.

As he propped his feet up on Snape's desk, Harry let out a low whistle. "So, soul-splitting?" he wondered aloud. "That's interesting. Thanks, Snape-cake."

Snape chose not to ask about 'Snape-cake' either. "While on the topic of Lord Voldemort-" began Snape.

"Do you know anything about a magic mirror in the school?" Harry cut him off.

"Merlin dammit, Potter!" cursed Snape.

"Language! You're in the presence of a child. Ugh, what kind of teacher are you?" blabbed Ral, now picking jars off the shelves, opening them and sniffing the contents.

_I don't know what you are, but I will find some way to kill you, _Snape vowed. He turned to Harry. "I know that Dumbledore plans on moving it into the third-floor corridor soon," the professor said. "Have you been sneaking out at night or something? That seems like something you'd do."

"I am offended that you would think me so brash as to disregard school rules," Harry gasped. He dropped the pseudo-offended facade. "Anyways, thanks for the information, even if it was decidedly _shoddy._ This should... perfect my scheme."

_Scheme?_ Snape thought, momentarily freaked out. Schemes weren't good. They were never good.

Harry put the chair back in its proper place and went to clean the cauldrons. Keeping up appearances.

-Q-

It was a miracle Harry found the mirror again. This time Harry dragged a bit of string behind him, so that Ral could follow.

"There it is, Ral," he said, gesturing the the clawed-foot mirror. "The mysterious mirror that Dumbledore is moving soon."

Ral cocked his head to the side as he entered the room. But he was not interested in the mirror that was apparently so very fascinating. Nay, his eyes were drawn to the far corner of the room. A twisted grin spread across his face, stretching the thin, gray skin and displaying his teeth. "Harry, I think you might want to shut up," Ral said.

"Why's that?" inquired Harry lazily, gazing into the mirror with a frown.

"Because Dumbledore's here."

Harry didn't give any sign that Ral had said that. He discreetly searched for Dumbledore in the mirror, but didn't spy the old man.

"Coot's made himself invisible," whispered Ral, walking around Dumbledore's general area. "But you realize now you have to act like you have an imaginary friend, right?"

"I realize this," Harry said aloud. Dumbledore already heard him talking. May as well play it off like he had a voice in his head, right? Besides, it might be fun to freak the headmaster out. Just for a little bit. "The exact function of the mirror confuses me. Have you any ideas?"

Ral came up to stand behind Harry. To the esteemed Boy-Who-Lived, it was almost an exact replica of what he had seen the previous time. Except Ral was actually there. "I dunno. It's just a mirror," shrugged Ral.

"Perhaps if I step out of the way?" Harry suggested, sliding away from the mirror and Ral.

Ral's eyes shifted between the mirror and Harry, who now stood by the door. "Nothing changed," he said. "You're still in the mirror."

"_Intriguing," _Harry hummed, thoughtfully cocking his head to the side. A smug smile graced his face. "I show not your face, but your heart's desire. I must say, my friend, I truly am flattered."

"Flattered by what, if I may ask, my boy?" inquired Dumbledore, suddenly making himself known. Harry, who had all but forgotten the old man's presence in the room, jumped.

He quickly righted himself. "Professor Dumbledore, I didn't see-"

Dumbledore waved a hand, smiling, and effectively silencing Harry. His eyes twinkled bright behind his spectacles. "Do not fret over it, my boy. A seasoned wizard doesn't need a cloak to turn invisible," the old man said. "I've seen you've taken an interest in the Mirror of Erised."

Harry allowed himself to, seemingly, relax. In truth, this was - and looked to him to be - his big chance at gathering information. "Mirror of Erised?" he parroted. "Yes, it has caught my interest. I take it you're quite knowledgeable of it?"

A fond chuckle sounded throughout the room. "My boy, I would hardly call myself knowledgeable," said Dumbledore fondly. "I only know the mirror's function. It's creator, purpose, mechanisms, and history all completely elude me. A knowledgeable man can tell you these things. An ignorant one – such as myself – could explain what it does at the very most."

Harry shrugged. "I think I figured out what it does just fine on my own, sir," Harry admitted. "It says right on it – it shows the viewer his or her heart's desire. I mean, it's name is just 'desire' spelled backwards, right?"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Harry, you have pinned it on the nose. Er, so to speak. Obviously, the Mirror of Erised does not have a nose to pin."

"It is a mirror," agreed Ral, though obviously his words went unheard by the headmaster.

"Which brings up back to my initial question: What is it that has flattered you, my boy?" pressed the old man. Harry was briefly caught in a dilemma. Telling the truth was risky – Lord knew how inquisitive Dumbledore could be. Then again, what lie could possibly be more believable?

Harry hummed, plunging his hands into his pockets and shifting from side to side. "Well, sir, it's a little embarrassing, but my imaginary friend says he just sees himself and me in the Mirror of Erised," Harry explained. Not entirely a lie, though judging by the look on Dumbledore's face, it may as well have been. He decided it was appropriate to elaborate, "I know it seems weird, me being eleven and still having imaginary friends, but I just... I never had friends back at the Dursleys, but even now that I have real friends, I just can't bring myself to... let him go, I suppose."

The slightly worried expression on Dumbledore's face eased up, replaced by a sympathetic smile. "Don't fret about it," he said again. "I understand having an imaginary friend, Harry, and I understand you being a bit embarrassed by it. But I also admire you, you know, retaining such a strong bond with a figment of your imagination. Just be cautious, and don't let it control you."

Harry nodded, privately smug. Friendship. It would be Dumbledore's undoing, one way or another.

"I'd suggest not going to look for the Mirror of Erised again," advised Dumbledore. "Not only have men wasted away before it, but it is also being relocated soon. But you knew that already, it seems. Best to stop skulking about after curfew anyway. Now, off you pop."

And off Harry popped, his 'imaginary friend' following close at his heels.

-Q-

As the day Harry jotted down in his Death Note drew nearer, his 'detentions' with Snape began to change. Snape insisted upon practice dueling, which was something Harry hadn't put much research towards. Needless to say, when he lay panting and pained on the dungeon floor, Ral's hysterical laughter ringing in his ears, he vowed to look into dueling.

Three days before the assigned date, Harry confronted Snape about the Stone.

"You need to get it before the last day of break, otherwise my plan falls apart," Harry stated plainly.

"I take it you're not going to tell me what that plan is?" drawled Snape moodily.

With a smile, Harry chirped, "Not _exactly._ The gist of it is, Quirrell goes to get the Stone, we tail him, we duel him, and it's a happily ever after for everyone. Except Quirrell and the Dark Lord, of course."

As was now the norm, Snape caved the Harry's will and did as he was told. The Boy-Who-Lived was only satisfied when the Philosopher's Stone lay gleaming on Snape's desk, before his very eyes. "Good on you, Snape," he said with a smile.

-Q-

The last day of Christmas break. Ten twenty-three in the evening. Harry's eyes flickered between his clock, and the two-way scrap of parchment he and Snape used to communicate. Within moments, the desired message appeared in green ink.

_Quirrell's gone off to the third-floor corridor._

At long last. Harry didn't bother bringing the Death Note, for everything that needed to be written had already been printed in permanent ink. All he needed was his wand, his Invisibility Cloak, and a Christmas present from a certain pug-faced Housemate. With the necessary items, Harry cloaked himself and departed. From the dungeons, the trek to the third-floor was long, but Harry made good time. He met Snape outside the door.

"He just went in," muttered Snape, as Harry revealed himself.

Harry pressed his ear to the door. Soothing harp music could be heard. "Ral, make sure it's clear," Harry ordered. Verbally expressing his displeasure at being ordered around, Ral walked straight through the wall, and returned quickly with news that the coast was clear. Harry unlocked the door, and he and Snape entered.

Snape pushed the Cerberus's massive paw away from the trap door. "Remember, Potter – relax. And if you can't do that, use fire," reminded Snape. With that, he jumped down. Harry was quick to follow.

The Devil's Snare allowed them through without a fuss. McGonagall's chessboard was by far the most impressive of the trials, but Snape breezed through it easily enough. They learned that Quirrell had used a troll for his 'trial'. It was asleep when they passed, but Harry stopped to remove its intestines anyway. "I don't like trolls," he explained, at Snape's disgusted look.

"This next one is my own," Snape said. Proudly, he continued, "It's a test of logic and wit. A wizard capable of passing all other trials could be stumped by this one. See, it's a riddle. Most wizards haven't an ounce of logic in them, which is why this trial lays so close to the Stone."

As they entered the room, fire shot up behind them, and in the opposite doorway. Snape strode up to the table, where several phials of liquid lay. "This one," he began, handing a phial to Harry, "will allow you to go back. I suggest you go, Potter. I will go on to face Quirrel." Harry waited until Snape had the appropriate potion to go onward in his hand.

"_Petrificus Totalus!" _Harry cursed.

The look of surprise was frozen on Snape's face, but inside he was fuming. Merlin damn it, he should have known a Potter would pull something like this. His insides chilled at the sight of Harry's eerie grin. The boy bent over him and took the potion out of his frozen fingers. "Don't you worry your greasy head, Professor," cooed Harry. "I'll be back to fix you right up." Pausing only to pat Snape on the head, Harry downed the potion and pressed on.

Ral smirked at Snape as he passed, and the Potions Master just had to wonder what, exactly, Ral was. Furthermore, he had to wonder what _Harry _was.

-Q-


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own jack squat. Except Ral – Ral is mine.

*Chapter title is a line from 'Living on a Prayer' by Bon Jovi.

**Chapter Five**

**It Doesn't Make a Difference if We Make it or Not**

-Q-

The chamber was lit dimly with fire when Harry entered, but wasted no time lighting up upon his entry. He idly admired the the stone floor and architecture of the room, though honestly it wasn't much different from the rest of Hogwarts. After twelve painstaking seconds, Harry allowed his eyes to fall upon that hateful, familiar violet turban.

"Surprised?" inquired Quirrell smugly. Harry could see him smirking in the Mirror of Erised. The boy checked his watch. Almost time. He just had to stall Quirrell for a few minutes.

"Oh, indeed. How is it possible? _You? _Sniveling, stuttering, innocent Quirinus Quirrell?" Harry gasped. He checked his watch again – just a bit longer now.

Quirrell turned around, grinning like a winning man. "It appears you're more clever than you appear," he commented.

Harry shrugged. "I'm not, actually. It's just that fools like you tend to overlook things," he explained. He let out a low whistle, and checked his watch once more. He made no effort to hide that he was checking the time. It wouldn't matter what Quirrell saw, in just a few more moments.

Apparently, Harry's comment about overlooking things was overlooked by Quirrell. "Smug boy," Quirrell muttered, pacing to and fro by the Mirror of Erised. "Do you think you're getting out of this alive?"

"Yes."

"You seem rather unimpressed, boy. Perhaps it is you who has overlooked something?" suggested Quirrell, with a wicked smile.

Eleven eleven in the evening. "Cut the crap, Quirrell," Harry snapped. "Just show me where you're stashing Voldemort so we can get this over with."

Quirrell froze, and for the first time, a real look of panic crossed his face. "How did you know?" he demanded sharply. "Tell me!"

"_Quirrell," _rasped a new voice. It seemed to struggle to speak, to get a word out. Harry also noted that it was a bit muffled. "_Let me see the boy, Quirrell. I would like to watch the light fade from his eyessss..." _The voice, presumably Voldemort, trailed off in a hiss. Harry took a moment to reflect upon just how cheesy Voldemort and Quirrell were. The two of them combined were like a dairy-induced nightmare.

The fraud of a Defense Professor objected to revealing the Dark Lord, but Quirrell would not disobey his master. Slowly, and vastly more dramatically than necessary, he removed his turban. Harry nearly gagged when he saw Voldemort, and openly shared a look with Ral to be sure the Dark Lord classified as 'disgusting'. Judging from the Shinigami's perplexed grimace, Voldemort was, indeed, gross.

On the back of Quirrell's head was the face of Voldemort. Old, veined, and outlandish. His skin stretched like rubber across the back of Quirrell's head, and his eyes were red and possessed a snake-like quality.

"_Harry Potter," _managed Voldemort. It appeared that speaking was putting a considerable strain on him. "_Look at me, Potter. See what I have been reduced to."_

"Yeah, you're totally gross," agreed Harry. Quirrell begged to curse Harry, but Voldemort yelled at him to be silent.

Grinning ever so slightly, Voldemort continued. "_To put it simply, yessss." _Harry was tempted to ask about the hissing. "_After I was weakened, I was forced to share a body with another. Quirrell was the optimal host – clever, young, on his way to being a Hogwarts Professor – but I cannot use his body forever. Which is where you come in."_

Harry wasn't even paying attention anymore. He was just watching the seconds go by on his watch. "Gee, Voldemort, that's neat and all," he said, discreetly fishing something out of his pocket, "but I haven't got all day, see. Neither do you. In fact, I'd say you only have, hm, eight seconds left to live. Starting... _now."_

Voldemort, of course, knew not how Harry could possibly kill him in eight seconds, but the boy seemed serious. Serious in a very confident way – as if he'd already won weeks ago. "_Kill him!"_ he screamed at Quirrell, who was more than happy to oblige.

Quirrell let out a strangled scream as he ran at Harry, arms outstretched as if he wished to choke the boy to death. Harry jumped out of the way, but Quirrell spun quickly and grabbed him by the wrist. He yelled something dramatic about the Dark Lord. His words were cut off by a powerful kick in the cut. The wind was knocked out of Quirrell, and Harry pushed him away.

He hadn't written anything about physically choking Quirrell to death, but the time of death was nearing and he had to die somehow. Harry leaped onto the man and grabbed him around the neck.

The agonized scream rang throughout the forbidden corridor, reaching Snape's ears and making him mentally flinch.

Harry saw what he had done and jumped back, staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before. Quirrell managed to pick himself up, cradling the half-ash, bloody mess of a neck he now possessed.

"_Kill him! Kill the boy, you ssswine!" _screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell lurched forward, but lost his footing and fell onto Harry. Voldemort saw this as the man's chance to strangle Harry, and was about to give Quirrell more orders when he heard it. Pained groaning, and a slight chuckle on Harry's behalf. Suddenly, Voldemort became aware of the agony in Quirrell's chest. A heart attack? Now? He screamed as Quirrell's body died, and forced his soul out of his host.

_On the 31st of December, 1991, at 10:23 PM_

Rage-fueled, Voldemort looked for something – anything – to latch onto. He caught sight of boy's eyes, wide and green and... _and perfect. _How fitting, that the only one capable of being is equal would act as his new host.

_Quirinus Quirrell will go to the Mirror of Erised, in the forbidden corridor on the third floor._

Voldemort thrust his very being unto Harry, preparing himself for the painful and long process of merging with another living soul. For some reason, it didn't come. He just felt... trapped, all of the sudden.

_Once there, he will die at 11:15 PM._

Harry shoved Quirrell's dead body off of himself, and regarded the little version of himself with a smile. Indeed, the Christmas present from Pansy would make a nice home for Voldemort's soul. "_Exsireus," _he mumbled, tapping the doll with his wand. If the spell worked properly, then Voldemort's soul would remain in that doll until Harry said otherwise.

He picked himself up and put Voldemort in his pocket. "Well, that happened," he stated. "Let's go un-curse Snape, shall we, Ral?"

Harry began to saunter off, but immediately lost his footing and fell to the ground. His face met the stone with a _smack, _and Ral made no effort to hide his hysterical cackling. He blushed and picked himself up again, making sure he could stand steadily before making his way back to Snape.

When faced with the fire in the doorway, it occurred to him that he had forgotten the potion to go back.

"I'll get it," said Ral, slipping through the wall and quickly returning with the appropriate phial. Hoping it wasn't poison, Harry downed it and stepped through the fire.

"Hey, Snape-cake," Harry greeted with a smile. He bent by the red-faced professor and made a grand show of removing the curse. "Confrontation with Voldemort went pretty well. Quirrell had a heart attack in the middle of it, can you believe? Anyway, what have you been up to, you crazy old man?"

As soon as Snape could move, he tried to throttle Harry.

"You fool! You idiot!" spat Snape. "What the devil were you thinking? You could have been killed! Murdered! _Decapitated! _What if your _scheme_ hadn't worked, hm? What then? We _both_ would have been killed, that's what. Honestly, all you Potters are alike. Mindless – thoughtless – irrational – buffoons!"

Harry darted away from Snape as the man tried to give him a piece of his mind. "Calm down, Snape-cake," ordered Harry, far more intimidated by Snape's fit than Voldemort's spiel. "It all worked out in the end! You only would have gotten in the way, anyhow."

Snape's face turned purple, and his nostrils flared in rage. "_It all worked out?" _he parrotted.

Ral cleared his throat, making Snape jump. "I can verify that it did, indeed, work out," offered Ral.

"Look – I captured Voldemort's soul in this nifty doll Pansy made me," Harry said, retrieving the doll and thrusting it in Snape's face. Snape tried to grab it, but Harry quickly snatched his hand away. "No grabby-hands. This is _my _doll, mind you."

The placement of Snape's rage shifted. What had once been him fed up with Harry's shenanigans was now him unable to understand why Harry would back out on their Vow. Furthermore, how he had backed out on their Vow and remained alive. "We made a deal, Potter," growled Snape, hand extended. "Now give me Voldemort's soul."

Tutting, Harry stuffed the doll and fragment of Voldemort's soul down the front of his trousers. "Not so fast, Snape-cake," Harry said with a wicked grin. "See, if you were to review the terms of our Unbreakable Vow, you'd realize we never discussed what would take place after we stopped Voldemort. This time, at least. The only thing we are obligated to share now is a secret."

Fists clenched at his sides, Snape's eyes flickered between Harry and Ral. He was tempted to forcibly take the soul-fragment from Harry and report to Dumbledore, but doing so would kill him. He cursed himself for not specifying the terms of the Vow after their goal was reached. He cursed himself for making an Unbreakable Vow with the son of James Potter in the first place. "I see," he grunted. "Very well then. I suppose we have nothing left to discuss."

"You have supposed correctly," Harry confirmed, before spinning on his heel and sauntering out if the room.

_I hope he's strangled by Devil's Snare on the way out, _thought Snape.

-Q-

"What do you know?" Draco Malfoy demanded lowly, arms folded over his narrow chest.

Harry's eyes quickly studied the four folk whom had cornered him outside the Great Hall: Hermione, Ron, Pansy, and of course Draco. He was privately surprised that Draco could swallow his stubborn pride long enough to gang up on someone with a Muggle-born _and _a Weasley.

"Well, I know quite a bit about unicycles and the work of J.R.R. Tolkien. I also know my middle name and Hermione's favorite color – but I also know you're not interested in that, so forgive me for answering your question with another question: What do I know about what, you blundering dunderhead?" retorted Harry, mocking Draco's pose.

It was Hermione who spoke up, rather than Draco. "Professor Quirrell is gone, Harry," she stated. "I know it's wrong to assume things, but-"

"Did you rip his intestines out through his naval like you did that troll on Halloween?" asked Ron loudly. He awaited Harry's answer with bated breath.

The Boy-Who-Lived heaved a sigh. "I am offended and disappointed that you would think me a lowly murderer. For your information, I rip the intestines out of trolls _exclusively. _And no, I know nothing of that stuttering fool's whereabouts," Harry lied. Behind his friends and Housemates, Ral gave a loud snort of derision.

The four physically deflated. "You're probably lying," muttered Pansy darkly. "You were here all break, and I know better than anyone that your a trip to his office away from being Quirrell's stalker. Potter, you _must _know something."

"I repeat: I know _nothing_ in relation to Quirrell's whereabouts. Maybe he's just sick," Harry suggested.

It was painstakingly obvious that no one believed him. After all, Harry had made it his business to know everything the moment he discovered the magical world. Despite their underdeveloped sense of reasoning, however, they all knew it was useless to try and get information out of him now. Not when he was putting so much effort towards keeping a straight face. So they dispersed, each individual planning their next attempt to badger him.

Such attempts would follow Harry like a shadow for the next few weeks, but they quickly faded away. Quirrell's replacement was a seasoned Auror with a magical injury on his leg, and was a vastly superior teacher. Professor Loreman managed to make up for all of Quirrell's shoddy teaching, and earn the respect of the wizard world's youth on top of it. When exams came, the students passed without much of a fuss.

With Voldemort out of the picture, and stashed inside a tiny replica of Harry, Hogwarts was considerably duller. Because he'd learned so much from researching after dark magic, nearly every class was a cinch for him. Harry grew almost reclusive, spending the majority of his free time in the library or feeding toast and the like to the giant squid.

After what felt like years, but was actually just a few months, Harry's last day of being an 'ickle firstie' came.

The mail came during breakfast, as per the usual, and Harry got his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ like always. His intention was to stuff it into his cloak to read on the train, but something caught his eye. An article by one Rita Skeeter, a journalist whom Harry had come to admire for her ability to make him literally laugh out loud whilst reading her articles.

However, whom had written the article became irrelevant when Harry actually skimmed through it. It was a typical Skeeter-esque title: **DARK MAGIC IN THE MUGGLE WORLD?** It told of countless Muggle criminals mysteriously dying of heart attacks over the last few months, and the faceless entity they had identified as the murderer. 'Kira', they called him, from the word 'killer'. Skeeter raved about the 'more than likely' possibility of dark wizards and witches in Japan killing these people, but Harry knew better.

_Kira, _was all he thought, as he folded the paper and stuffed it into his robes. He felt oddly warm and fuzzy, now. As if there were a long, strong string, with him on one end and Kira on the other, through which they shared warmth and kinship. Harry hadn't even considered such a use of the Death Note – systematically killing criminals in this way, serving ones own brand of sweet, succulent justice unto the world? How admirable. How daring.

From what Rita Skeeter had said about Kira in her snippet of an article, Kira was based in Japan. Harry did his best to hide his grin.

_This summer, I'm learning to speak Japanese, _he decided. He would learn Japanese alright, and hopefully a great, grand deal about the Death Note as well.

-Q-

**AN/ **VERY short chapter, but the whole point was just to tidy up Harry's first year and put more weight on the Death Note half of the scale. Hopefully I can get my act together for year two – ta for now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own jack squat. Except Ral – Ral is mine. Ah, Hell, except any completely and utterly unrecognizable characters from either Death Note or Harry Potter. OCs make the world go 'round.

*Chapter title is a line from 'Begging For Thread' by Banks.

**Chapter Six**

**So, I Got Edges That Scratch**

-Q-

The witch was dressed in scandalous black robes that showed off her legs and no small amount of cleavage. She leaned on the bar and smiled seductively as she spoke to Paxer. "I like you," she decided, smirking. "The strong, silent type. Cute, too."

Oh, what Paxer would have given to forget his business and spend all day and night with that witch. Unfortunately, the jingle of galleons in his pocket seemed more alluring than anything else in his pocket. Besides, when he got paid, he could get a hold of a skilled witch with Polyjuice Potion. "I like you, too," Paxer admitted. "But I'm busy today."

The witch pouted – damn, that was the best pout he'd ever seen – but relented. She departed to go flirt with someone else, and Paxer was sad to see her go.

A short, hooded figure came to sit beside him. "Mister Fuchsia," greeted the newcomer. A kid, by the sound of him.

Paxer scowled, peering at the young wizard out of the corner of his eye. "Get lost, kid," he snapped. "This pub isn't any place for a toddler. Furthermore, Knockturn Alley isn't your place either. Scat."

The kid didn't relent, instead flashing him with a sharp, cold, green stare. "Don't get your panties in a knot. I am Sylvester Burke, and I believe we have business with one another. You _did_ get my owl, didn't you?" the kid – Burke – said icily. Paxer physically recoiled. This kid was gonna feed him for a month? Really?

Regardless, 'Sylvester Burke' was the name tied to the owl. But Paxer had thought it would be an old man – possibly a Burke from _Borgin and Burkes._ Well, kid or no, he needed the money. "Okay," said Paxer slowly. "So, you're the guy?"

"I am the guy, Mister Fuchsia."

"Just call me 'Paxer', adolescent," insisted Paxer.

"Okay, Paxer-adolescent," began Burke brightly, "I need you to tell me about a murderer. A Muggle one, likely based in Japan. I take it you spend quite a bit of time in that country?"

Paxer nodded. "I do. And I might know who you're talking about. Then again, I may need a little something to jolt my memory. It's just a little hazy..." Paxer winked at Burke, and the child sighed.

"How's this: You just tell me what I want to know, and I pay you for that. Just like we arranged. If not, I kill you. Sound good?" Burke offered, his tone light. To the untrained ear, he and Paxer were discussing what to do with a broken garage door or a box of old sweaters. Not demanding payment for information about a murderer and threatening to kill one another.

The older man was unfazed by Burke's threat. "You know, it's really hard to get information out of a corpse," commented Paxer.

Burke sighed, and gave in. He reached into his cloak and retrieved a hefty sack of galleons. How he had stored such a large bag of money in his cloak, Paxer could only guess. What mattered was he had just scored about a hundred galleons up front. "There's this guy in Japan: Kira. People over there have started regarding him as some sort of god. No civilian has any idea who he could be, but I have an ear inside the investigation. He says that the detective after this guy has one main suspect," Paxer said, lowly and quickly. He didn't know it, but Burke had to work to hear every word.

"Who is this suspect?" demanded Burke.

He had Burke in the palm of his hand, and he knew it. They both knew it. Paxer allowed himself a smirk as Burke caved. "I can add twenty percent to your pay," muttered the child.

With a satisfied nod, Paxer continued. "Light Yagami. He's the son of one of the detectives on the case, and a bona fide prodigy. The guy in charge hasn't got solid proof yet, but he suspects him. Greatly."

The kid nodded, and Paxer caught a musing look in his eyes. "Thank you, Paxer-adolescent. I believe that's all I will be able to squeeze from you," Burke said as he slipped off the stool and brushed off his robes. "I will deliver your payment to you within the week. Ta."

He began sauntering out of the pub, pausing only to flash Paxer a lethal stare.

Paxer shuddered, ignoring the peculiar look the barkeep shot him. Sylvester Burke – or whoever that kid had been – seemed just a little off.

_I may have to warn Matsuda about this, _mused Paxer quietly, already mentally rehearsing his heartfelt apology.

-Q-

Dudley's eyes followed Harry warily as the skinnier of the two boys made his way up the stairs. It seemed that, over the course of the school year, Dudley had convinced himself that Harry was responsible for Vernon Dursley's death. He was, actually, but Dudley had no clue how. In any case, the fat bastard was exceedingly cautious around his cousin now.

Fine by Harry. He didn't have the time or the patience to deal with Dudley anyway.

"So, Japan. That's nifty," Ral started, as the two of them reached the top of the stairs. "You know, those Asian women have some pretty intense life-spans. And my own years are starting to dwindle into the double-digits..."

Harry slammed his bedroom door before responding. "Oh, just go kill some fools at the homeless center," Harry scowled. "I can do a lot of things, but getting into another country isn't high on the list."

A loud groan escaped Ral, and he allowed himself to fall over. "So how are you gonna get in contact with this Yagami guy? Send him an _owl?"_ The Shinigami cackled openly and rolled around on the floor a bit, barbed tail swishing around and nearly hitting Harry in the head.

Despite how irritable Ral's antics were, Harry allowed himself a small smile. He retrieved a notebook – a perfectly normal notebook – from under his bed and flopped down onto the mattress. He untied his cloak and stretched his arms, before whipping out a pen and opening the notebook. "Not quite, my killing, kleptomaniac friend," Harry said, loud enough to be dramatic but not loud enough for Dudley to hear. "I am going to write him a letter."

"I'm not a kleptomaniac. Why would you even say that?" mumbled Ral. In a louder voice, he continued, "A letter, you say? I know you have the suspect's name now, but that's it. And he's only a suspect."

Harry clapped his hands excitedly. "Oh, I am so glad you asked. I got on Dudley's computer yesterday-"

"Oh, Merlin, please tell me you didn't see his browsing history. I was peeping over his shoulder last night – _revolting."_

Harry's face went blank, and Ral remembered that despite everything Harry aspired to and had done, he was barely twelve years old. "Grown up stuff, Harry. Don't worry, you'll catch up to Dudley soon," Ral assured him. "I digress. What did you find?"

He let it slide. "Sakura TV, that's what. In the past months, they've openly broadcast several messages, all from some clown claiming to be a 'second Kira'," Harry explained. "Sakura TV's main concern is how much money they make. A second Kira? Profit. But a _third _Kira? They'll be lolling in money for years to come. All I have to do is send them a letter, and they read it for me. Boom." With a grin, Harry settled down to compose his letter.

What Harry had said confused Ral a bit. _A second Kira?_

Ral sighed and walked straight through the wall. He would throw pens and the like at Dudley whilst he mused about this.

-Q-

Curses were flung at Matsuda at alarming speed, but he dodged them without a problem. These streets were deserted, courtesy of twelve other wizards obligated to follow Matsuda's orders, so he openly shot his own spells at the chump he was chasing. A wizard by the name of Jurou Yukimaru, with a long and spotty history involving dark magic. He had acted as a resource for the Japanese Auror Force for twenty years, when he wasn't on the run for some crime or another.

Today, he hadn't committed a crime (as far as Matsuda knew, anyway). Today he was acting as a resource.

Matsuda jumped over a fallen trash can and shot three spells at Yukimaru, all missing except one. With a strangled yelp, the aging wizard was knocked off his feet and caught in a bind. If Matsuda was lucky, he could get Yukimaru to talk without much of a... fuss.

Chest heaving from running and shouting spells, Matsuda stood over his resource. "Jurou," he said between breaths. "Good to see you again."

If Yukimaru had been capable of moving, Matsuda had no doubt in his mind that the man would have tried killing him by now. "You know why I'm here, Yukimaru," stated Matsuda, once he had caught his breath. With narrowed eyes, he continued, "Kira. He's a dark wizard, isn't he? What have you heard?"

A grunt and the clenching of Yukimaru's jaw reminded Matsuda to remove a bit of the curse on Yukimaru's mouth. "I haven't heard jack shit, Touta," spat Yukimaru. "No one knows anything about Kira. Now let me go!"

Matsuda kicked him in the ribs. Hard. "Don't lie to me," Matsuda ordered icily. "I'll ask again: What do you know about Kira?"

"Nothing!" screamed Yukimaru. "Goddammit, Touta, he's as big an 'if' to my circle as he is to anyone else. If he even is a wizard, he's out of my league. I have never heard of any kind of magic that can do the stuff he does, _including _the Killing Curse. Are you satisfied?"

Matsuda was about to kick him again when his cellphone rang. Cursing under his breath, he took on the character that the others of the Task Force knew: Bumbling, niave Matsuda. "Hello? Ryuzaki?" Matsuda answered.

"_Matsuda, you have twenty-five minutes and... I'd say eleven seconds to get back to headquarters," _L droned from the other end. "_It's Sakura TV. Be quick."_ With that, L hung up and Matsuda swore like a sailor. A sailor with pottymouth and no ladies present. He put his phone back in his breast pocket and gave Yukimaru a filthy look.

"I'll let you go this time, Yukimaru," he hissed. "But make no mistake: If I think you know anything – and I mean _anything –_ about Kira, I will hunt you down. I will hunt you down and interrogate the shit out of you." One last kick in the ribs, to remember him by. Matsuda lifted the curse on Yukimaru and apparated away.

He appeared beside a trash can, behind a dingy restaurant he knew was owned by a witch. After making sure there was no sign of his chase, Matsuda walked the two blocks to HQ. He passed the security and made his way up to the appropriate room.

L and the Task Force all sat, huddled by the television that boasted Sakura TV's logo. Watari nodded to him upon his entry, a gesture that Matsuda returned. He joined the rest of the Task Force.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"It's Sakura TV," growled Soichiro Yagami. "There's talk of a _third Kira _now. They say that the previous night, they got a letter from someone claiming to have the same powers as the first two. Probably a scam. You know how they are with publicity and money and all that."

Light piped up, his tone cautious. "Me and Ryuzaki are in agreement that it isn't wise to take chances, though," he said. L just grunted, piling a breathtaking amount of sugar into his teacup.

Matsuda carefully watched Light out of the corner of his eye. He was L's prime suspect, but Matsuda couldn't really bring himself to conjure up a hefty amount of suspicion. He was Light Yagami, for the love of God. He probably pressed flowers in his free time. Furthermore, Kira was bound to be a dark wizard, and would therefore be marked as a magical person by the Japanese Ministry. Matsuda had dug through those files twelve times, and not once did the name 'Light Yagami' show up. Oh, he could understand why L thought he was so iffy. But he couldn't understand why he persisted in that iffiness even after they planted cameras all over his house.

"Something wrong, Matsuda?" asked Light suddenly.

"Nothing," Matsuda replied quickly, cursing himself for staring. Really, years of training would have normally taught him not to fall victim to such inadequacies.

Mogi and Aizawa began bickering about the probability of this 'third Kira' being for real, a discussion that lasted for nearly fifteen minutes and involved a long list of statistics on L's behalf, and only ended when Sakura TV announced that the letter would now be read.

The Task Force was on the edge of their seats as it was announced that the letter had been translated word-for-word by some Sakura TV pawn by the name 'Hinata'. The pale man was also made to be the one reading it.

"_H-hello, Kira," _read Hinata, visibly sweating and lips trembling. Apparently, someone at Sakura TV finally thought to hide his face, because the screen quickly changed to a big '3'. "_I would like to make one thing p-perfectly clear: I am no 'third Kira'. You and the second Kira have one thing in common, and that is the desire to serve your own brand of justice unto the world. I am not interested in such things. My only interest are these powers we all share. Obviously, you've learned b-by now that they are simply amazing."_

Hinata paused to take a shaky breath, and the Task Force all shared mutual looks of unease. Save for L, of course, who looked on with idle interest.

"_I, myself, don't know of enough people I believe worthy of death to do a lot of e-e-experimenting, but you certainly do. I would s-simply _love _to get into contact with you and hear of what you've learned. Don't think I'm a freeloader, though - I know a lot of things, just n-not in relation to these powers. I would happily share tidbits in exchange for your knowledge. Sincerely, with greatest respects, BWL."_

The graphic of the 3 disappeared, and Sakura TV began raving about the letter.

"The Hell was that?" demanded Aizawa. "Experimenting?"

L hummed and stuffed an entire doughnut in his mouth. "Well, he made on thing perfectly clear," the detective said around the pastry, "he isn't to be called 'Kira'. It refers to 'killer', and from the sound of it, he hasn't done a lot of killing." He swallowed.

"Still a little killer, though," mumbled Soichiro darkly.

Thinking it was appropriate to say something stupid, Matsuda brightly piped up. "Little killer? We could call him 'Ritorukira'!" While he snickered, ignoring the unappreciative glares of his comrades, L looked on thoughtfully.

"You know, that may actually stick," L said. He sighed and carefully selected another doughnut. "But names aside, I don't think Ritorukira – or BWL, as he called himself - is that big of a concern. In all likelihood, he's a scoundrel trying to cash in on this Kira business. He provided absolutely no proof of his powers and expressed no Kira-like tendencies. Also, something about sending a letter to Sakura TV seems very... amateur."

L took a large bite out of his new doughnut and continued without bothering to swallow. "Regardless, he could just be slightly more sane or reasonable than Kira and the second Kira."

"It's not safe to assume anything," intoned Light.

"Precisely. So, because Matsuda never does anything important, I nominate him to look into this," L declared. He took a moment to lament the plate that had recently contained many doughnuts, but was now barren. "The rest of us will investigate as usual."

While the others dispersed, Matsuda considered Ritorukira. The Japanese Ministry had him assigned to Kira, but now he was stuck looking into this... this fraud? Fantastic.

He was drawn out of his musing by Light clearing his throat. "Yeah?" Matsuda inquired.

"I think I might want to help you with this 'Ritorukira' business," Light said smoothly. "It's probably nothing, but... I just can't shake the feeling that there's more to this."

Matsuda smiled – a real, genuine smile. Not an expression donned to keep up the bumbling-Matsuda disguise in effect. "Thanks, Light," he said. "I could use some help." The sooner this BWL/Ritorukira mess was cleaned up, the sooner he could get back to his real work.

Unbeknownst to Matsuda, Light's desire to help him wasn't driven by an iffy feeling. No, behind his eyes, Light's mind was reeling. What had Misa done? She'd all but turned Kira into a cash-cow. This was awful. It seemed his plan to get Misa out of captivity would have to be postponed - Rem would be furious, of course, but what else could he do? If there was an impostor, he had to eliminate that blemish from the face of Kira.

Besides, what if, though it was highly unlikely, Ritorukira was for real? Light could use him to his advantage.

Ah, who was he kidding? He'd kill the fool either way.

-Q-

**AN/ **Ah, thanks to those who pointed out the unlikeliness of everyone in the Task Force just buying Ritorukira immediately. I actually completely spaced it when I wrote this chapter, so thank the Gods for nit-picky fanfiction enthusiasts. As for Harry signing the letter 'BWL' - 'BWL' could stand for anything: Bees Winking Lustily, for example. A detective looking at that wouldn't immediately think: Boy-Who-Lived! It was an easy and fitting way for Harry to sign a letter, is all.


End file.
